


Newton's Improbabilities

by ksuzu



Series: Fantastic Beasts Snapshots [5]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: American Quidditch, Awkward Boss, Bromance, F/M, Hogwarts Visit, Jacob & Newt Go Drinking, Patriotic Competitiveness, Slow Dancing, Vehicular Romance, Western?, jealous!newt, singing!newt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ksuzu/pseuds/ksuzu
Summary: You romance a Porpentina the same way you mate a Horntail. With utmost care. [Drabbles of the small, improbable moments of the two at various stages, featuring various guests.]





	1. Every Good Idea, Untested

**Author's Note:**

> This is (mostly) a silly, self-indulgent fic (that all authors are allowed at least one of, I think?). It does get somber in places.
> 
> Below is a timeline I slapped together, for people that like reading chronologically. An --> indicates that there's a direct tie in from the previous line to the next, meaning that this particular chronology is set. 
> 
> Timeline of chapters:
> 
> (NOTE: I don't personally recommend reading per timeline, but it could be fun as a second look kind of thing)
> 
> 18 (first half): unlikely  
> \-->10-11-12: beloved series  
> 3: nonhabitable  
> 4: uncultured  
> 2: unwanted (kind of up in the air in timeline)  
> 17: unlikely  
> 13: unbidden  
> 6: uncontested  
> 22: unrepentant  
> 14: unheard  
> 19: unappreciative  
> 7: unconstant  
> \-->8: unexpected  
> 9: unencumbered  
> 1: untested  
> 15: unabashed  
> \-->21: unspoiled  
> \-->16: unprompted  
> \-->18 (second half): unlikely  
> \-->20: unbreakable

.

.

Scamanders do not get roaringly drunk.

That is a trait reserved for the Smiths, or Cadwalladers, and even after age, the owner of Hog’s Head Inn still spares his old Hufflepuff classmates an especially sharp, cranky glare that curiously reminds Newt of a certain Professor.

Regardless, Newt takes another swill, because Jacob swears to him that courage comes in liquid form, and, scientifically speaking, no one of repute has disproved that this muggle stuff did not imbue the drinker with a penchant for heroics.

What was the saying again?

“Desperate measures call for desperate times,” Jacob announces, helpfully.

“Hm,” Newt says, and doesn’t read too much into it. “How did you do it, then?” He crashes his pint against Jacob’s, watching the thick white foam slither down the side. The (shiny, squeaky clean, and perfectly legal) pub is fresh-opened, and _full_. People are still far too happy about the post-prohibition years to save their money on drink.

“Easy as pie, Newt, I just stood in front of her and…” Jacob is smiling like he’s found out the rain drops bricks of gold, then pauses for a moment. The baker salvages the memory from his state of inebriation. “I—I mean, she just _knew_.”

“Firecrab’s arse,” Newt comments enthusiastically, slugging his beer around. “Doomed. Utterly ended.”

“There were the normal signs, too.” Jacob claps an encouraging hand on his friend’s back. “I mean, I bought roses and a ring.”

“Tina hates excess,” muses Newt, staring abjectly into the gaping abyss of his (fifth? Sixth?) pint glass. “She says it’s not right, in this e-econ- _hic_ -my. ‘ _Even if we have enough money,_ _others still don’t, Newton Scamander’_.”

Jacob, blinking violently, shakes his head, wondering at intoxicated Newt’s exceedingly accurate impression.

“Why not buy her something useful? Women like practical comforts.” Words having just left his mouth, Jacob stares wonderingly at his own reflection in his beer. Good Lord, he should write books! Dispense wisdom to his kind! Clearly, his being successfully affianced to a woman like Queenie means he is the model of successful courtship.

“I think,” Jacob continues, the paragon of self-confidence, “That you should take some cues from what you know best. How would you treat this, if she were a fantastic beast? It’s the same principles, my good man. Same principles.”

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ties into the second "scene" of Newton's Taxonomies, but was cut during edits. Queenie and Newt have their foray after this enlightened exchange between Jacob and Newt.
> 
> So instead, it's been appropriated to start this adventure. Yay? Recycling?


	2. Office Romance, Unwanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the awkward bosses out there.  
> Per last chapter, Jacob told Newt to get Tina something practical. Newt's probably the king of practical gifts anyhow.

.

.

Make no mistake about it: Percival Graves is a very good investigator.

Thus, he traces the source first. Though Graves is loathe to get involved with his subordinates' personal lives, and though he’s jumpier than before (being kidnapped and impersonated does that to you), his circumstances require a degree of flexibility in soliciting critical information.

“Your chair,” he begins, having stopped at the cell with a plated “ _Goldstein_ ” on it for the third time that day.

Tina's eyes peek over her mound of paperwork. The exposed part of her face tries very hard to exude competence, and Graves can see how she gets her reputation.

“Sir. How may I help you?”

He thinks about how to broach this subject. Maybe it _is_ inappropriate to solicit in this manner.

“I’m, ahem, passing through.” Graves nods curtly, before sauntering off again, cool and foreboding and eliciting a chorus of dreamy sighs from the temps the next cubicle over.

Tina looks around a bit dazedly. This marks the fourth _incident_ of the day, and the twenty-ninth in nearly two weeks. It’s like Newt’s gift has heralded in a shiny new world of… well, feeling like Queenie. If she’d been properly taught to preen like a self-satisfied peacock in school, Tina might have attempted that now. Just a little. Just a tiny bit.

No, _no_. Stop this madness. Even her poor boss is affected now!

No-frills personality or not, Tina’s work persona and attire derive in part from wanting to stave off male attention. Besides (at this, her pen stops, and she gives a small, secret sigh) she already has someone. _Maybe._ She thinks they've been explicit enough about it.

Queenie pops a golden head into the cubicle space. “Teenie, it’s not what you think.”

Tina hums and takes a proffered cookie from her sister’s tray.

“I don’t need you to remind me, Queenie. I’m not you. I don’t have men falling over for me at every corner.”

“Oh Teen, your posture _is_ so much better. Some guys _are_ noticing that, and others are just, well, playing the… game.” Queenie informs her. “Mr. Graves is only after one thing, though.”

Tina balks. She’s not against others' office romances per se, but boss-subordinate trysts reek of No-Maj penny novellas. Tina’s really more of a closet romantic with a penchant for awkward Europeans.

Her sister lets out an airy laugh. “Just tell your boss what Newt bought for you. He’ll stop after that.” With a wave, Queenie leaves to finish her scheduled rounds.

“Well, _I’m_ not the legilimens,” Tina reasons stolidly, and goes back to paperwork. She gets through three more paragraphs on extra-dimensional motor vehicle travel before a figure again comes marching from Mr. Graves office.

“Miss Goldstein, if I may have a word—”

Like a good auror, Tina preempts. “—Sir, I don’t think we should. It’s _improper._ ”

“Yes, but I thought our whole department would benefit." Percival Graves hesitates. "Surely you could disclose from where you procured your gift. Your friend’s address, perhaps, so I could inquire.”

Tina’s brow furrows. The age of men dueling over a woman was quite over, she thought. “He bought me this as a friendly gift. It’s honestly not a big deal, Sir.”

Graves reminds himself of how, over the past year, it’s been so exceedingly hard to sit comfortably, after the incident, and presses on. “It’s lumbar support, isn’t it? A chair cushion for your back. I could use one.”

“Yes,” says Tina. Then, enlightened: _“Oh.”_

“When is Mr. Scamander coming around again? Invite him to the office. I need to recommend his European sensibilities to that lad in human resources, the one who orders the office furniture. And Miss Goldstein—”

“Sir?” she says, confused by the evil eye Mr. Portler across the cubicle is currently shooting at her boss. 

“—He’s a keeper. Don’t let the office betting pool get to you.”

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is borderline crack!fic/subtle humor done too subtly. 
> 
> BUT Graves as a hard exterior, soft interior kind of boss spoke to me. xD
> 
> As always, thanks for indulging my whimsies.


	3. New York, Nonhabitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ode to NYC. And public transport.

.

.

“You’ve taken the London Underground before,” Tina protests. “How is this any different?”

Newt hates New York City, sometimes. He warily eyes the mass of people swarming in and out of the clunking, steel serpent. Some of them look openly murderous, and that’s not even their target. Then he looks into Tina’s expectant taupe eyes.

“Erm, today’s not…”

 _“We’re gonna lose him!”_ Tina grabs Newt’s forearms, tucks them by his side, and shovels him through the crowd. Newt’s sort of always been tall and gangly, so he’s useful for this kind of thing.

Sometimes, while bulldozing grouchy Americans aside, Newt wonders why he lets Tina force him into catching New York mob bosses with her. He’s mad. _Madly in love._ Neither bodes particularly well for his longevity and health.

They’re stuffed unceremoniously onto the subway car, like canned sardines or some other unsavory dish that reeks of necessity, not palatable-ness.

Newt’s quite overwhelmed by the whole thing as Tina’s frame is bumped forward by a man shoving through hissing, closing doors, so that she in turn mashes up against Newt for a brief terrible, heavenly second while Newt holds his breath and Tina stares into his eyes and— _Merlin, there’s the acceleration_ —both of them tumble down into the lap of a gruff old No-Maj. (“Kids these days,” he growls, though Tina and Newt are both flirting with the end of their second decade.)

“I—I,” Newt tries to tell Tina, once they’ve righted themselves again. One arm is extended awkwardly, annoying several fellow sardines.

“Save space,” Tina commands brusquely, not looking at him.

But her cheeks are pink, and her heart is hammering a loud, tell-tale beat against Newt’s own, as she drags his arm down to wrap snugly around her shoulders.

Yes, Newt loves the City, this crowded, dangerous, confusing place.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am shameless, essentially. 
> 
> I have no qualms with posting plotless fluff. 
> 
> I stand tall, with pride, that if I write more in the author's note, the note will be longer than the chapter itself. 
> 
> (Someone send help)


	4. Your Interests, Uncultured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to build on the American/English dynamic a bit more with this and the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you all for liking my (also uncultured) piece. I'm writing all those unimportant but (I think) important bits about their relationship that I hope are very realistic. 
> 
> Because even OTPs have friction points. Like, seriously, Newt's super irresponsible. Cute, but irresponsible. Also, Tina seems to be a book-learner, and competitive. Hopefully this will all play in, in the future.
> 
> And finally, I try to infuse some NYC/period-details in these, because I am a huge history nerd.

.

. 

Prickly.

Merlin, she’s prickly, like a Runespoor. Newt takes a moment to brush over his tender bum, before waddling over to the other end of the sidewalk. He’s a little dizzy after her hasty side-along apparition, and the enormous silk wrap adorning his neck almost choked him.

“Tina,” he says, his tone the purest remorse. “I can explain.”

Sometimes, it’s like she has three heads. One is serious and demure, the other joyful and ebullient, and the final—

_Newt balks as he gets an eyeful_

—carefully livid. Her face is like an exquisite painting before the artist runs mad and fills the canvas with black. Newt is fond of expressionism the same way he’s fond of Tina taking the initiative to invite him to the Metropolitan Museum, but for the life of him, he cannot fathom this particular mood.

“What _could_ I have done?” he tries.

“I don’t know! But you can’t just-just _wave_ your wand, and take a piece of No-Maj art like that!”

“This brocade was Yu’s heirloom. It’s imbued with magic and therefore priceless,” Newt explains patiently, said priceless artifact fluttering casually in the New York breeze like an enormous red and gold butterfly. “We have to return it. The archeologists must have poached this from the Chinese Fireball shrine, and somehow the black market dumped it here, where no one cultured enough could tell the difference.”

He could tell Tina did not appreciate his words.

“You _forget_ who I am, Mr. Section 3-8,” Tina’s eyes narrow at him. “Don’t make me write another report on you.”

Newt hangs his head, hair flopping to shadow his slightly unrepentant eyes as the Englishman moves his hands out front, ready to be cuffed, or, worse, left by himself on the sidewalk. “S-Sorry.”

“I mean—” Tina tries to stifle the feeling of failure. “—I just thought we could have a nice Saturday outing and it wouldn’t involve anything work-related, you know? I only just made peace with my office mates.” 

“Over what?” Newt asks, doing his utmost to prove he’s a good, kind, most excellent choice of human male companion. 

Sadly, it doesn’t seem to work. Tina’s eyes flash, and she clams up. “Y-you’re not privy to that information.”

“Okay, well, we’ll go back to the Ministry and get this sorted this afternoon,” Newt says winningly. He tucks the brocade into his lapel. “But we can continue our, erm, outing, first.”

Tina bites her lip. He’s being dishonest.

Newt should know Tina planned this as a serious date, and he should know they can’t go back in the museum until Tina gets clearance.

“We can’t.” Tina shakes her head sadly. “Newt, did you even get to appreciate any of the art?”

Now she’s the one who’s dishonest. If _Globetrotting Malachi’s 101 Truths about Brits_ has anything to say about this, it’s that the quickest way to be on equal standing with your European beau is to ingratiate yourself to his culture. The book is clear that the finer half of transatlantic culture is about classics, painting, and sculpture. All things Tina has only the faintest clue about.

Then Newt swings his hand toward hers, tugging briefly as he steers them toward Central Park.

His freckles flush in the balmy sun. “I saw you, and I think that suffices.”

.

.


	5. Sweets, Untraditional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of our most beloved and iconic candy/sweets came from this period.
> 
> I just wanted to write competitive!Tina and competitivebutjustinlove!Newt. And also about as much innuendo as I can do without burning my face off. Sigh.

.

.

Queenie walks in on an assortment of wrappers littering Newt’s hotel floor.

“Teenie,” she breathes, putting down her recent purchase from the corner store. “I thought you and Newt were gonna do research.”

The tops of a dark and bronze head poke up from their respective positions on the sofa. “W-we are! Thanks, Queenie!” and “H-Hullo,” are called out in gasping tones.

Queenie rolls her eyes and smiles softly. “Have fun, you two,” she calls, a ringing laugh trailing after her as she closes the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Tina moans into the cushion. “That’s cheating, Newt.”

“There’s nothing safer than the tried and true,” retorts the Englishman, his face flushing as he shakes out his half-empty box. “Anyhow, last time, you said you liked these, Tina.” He moves closer.

“Wait!” Tina sifts through Queenie’s bag and takes hold of the small package. “You can’t go again until I use this."

Newt sniffs.

“Concede defeat. Mortimer’s Cauldron Cakes are the most innovative delicacies in Great Britain,” he argues, brandishing the box of biscuit-like things. “This lovely orange zest flavor is recently inspired from the Muggle Jaffa Cake.”

“And that is why,” Tina harrumphs, “We fight fairly. This was a wizard-only contest until you cheated, and now, with the help of my sweet-tooth sister, I will prove you wrong.” She proffers her contender.

It's brown and circular and flat. An excited _REEESE'S!_ mounts the front of the discarded wrapper.

The candy disappears in several bites of peanut and chocolate in the space between them.

Then, five ape-like fingers materialize in the air.

“Five to four,” Tina crows. “I win. American candy is superior. Even your Demiguise thinks so.”

“Come now, Dougal old chap,” Newt says, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Be patriotic for once. I’ve lost the last four contests. I'm still sore about the English music, and now our candy is worse. At this rate, I’ll have to concede about Ilvermorny”

“Everyone knows it,” Tina declares authoritatively, as Newt sputters.

“Y-your No-Maj candy industry has created the abomination you call chocolate. I hope it shall never reach Europe.”

“Mr. Hershey and Mr. Reese are trailblazers,” says Tina. “It’s cheap, and that’s what matters.” She grins, smug, as the Demiguise reaches for another chocolate-coated peanut butter cup.

“It’s not right,” says Newt, eyeing their other judge, who has long since stopped inhabiting his role. The Niffler is currently scuttling chocolate droplets coated in shiny aluminum foil into its pouch. “All flare, no substance.”

“Cauldron cakes are outdated.”

“They’re _traditional_.”

“Even their name is outdated.”

Tina unwraps a chocolate drop that he saved from the Niffler, and pops it in her mouth. Newt sulks.

“F-fine, what are those, then? Hershey’s Niffler Catchers?”

She’s still grinning from victory. “Hershey’s Kisses.”

"Fine," says Newt. "Fine."

He leans in—

—wipes her smug grin clean off.

“T-Traditional ones are much better,” Newt declares.

 

.

.


	6. Stiff Competition, Uncontested

.

.

_The American Quidditch League_

_invites you!_

_Fitchburg Finches vs. Clearwater Coypus_

_First Full Moon of Autumn_

_New England, USA_

 

* * *

 

The crowds roar their approval as broomsticks zip around the enormous Quidditch pitch. It’s a glorious day. The New England fall colors are striking against the crisp sky, and a taste of frost in the breeze has rendered all of the audience’s cheers into white plumes.

“That’s Theodore Fordham, star seeker. It’s his last game before he gets drafted,” Queenie explains, her muffler wrapped snugly around pink cheeks.

Newt’s Sneakoscope is imprinting a red mark on his face, as he glues it to his eye, fixated on a spot opposite them in the stands.

“Ted’s under very strict surveillance. You have to understand, honey.”

“I understand,” Newt answers carefully. “What I _don’t_ understand is why Tina’s sitting all the way over there. MACUSA had a lot of aurors to choose from.”

He jerks his chin (inconspicuous, smooth) toward the bleachers. The Fitchburg Finches, even the benched ones, are all very dazzling in burgundy robes. Tina is a familiar spot of blue amidst the red sea.

“Most of the team’s from Massachusetts, or have family that went to Ilvermorny,” hums Queenie. “Ted was in the same year as Teen, same dueling club and academic honors. He was a good friend when things got tough.”

 _I’m sure he was_ , Newt thinks as a curiously sour sensation tickles his gut. He doesn’t think anyone with a name like Theodore should be good at so many things. It’s a bit too close to home for comfort.

Unfortunately, Newt’s suspicions of Ted’s adequacy are anything but allayed as the game stretches on.

It’s not the championship game, but the flyers are playing ugly, cuffing one another as they zoom by. Bludgers are being launched left and right at seekers on both teams, and Ted is nearly acrobatical, swooping and dipping to avoid being hit.

Through it all, Tina watches Ted (hands clasped), and Newt watches Tina (hands clenched).

“… Pickett,” whispers Newt when he can’t quite stand anymore. The Bowtruckle stretches from the warm wrap of Newt’s new pocket square. He gives Newt a solemn nod of understanding.

Newt is mildly relieved. He won’t need to release the Swooping Evil after all.

The crowd grows quiet, then explodes.

“Ooh,” Queenie exclaims, clapping along as Ted escapes from a particularly dizzying dip after catching the golden snitch. “I wish Jacob could be here to see! Newt, did you catch that?”

Her curls bounce as she turns. “Newt? Oh.”

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me, my Bowtruckle’s in there. I really need to retrieve him.”

Both the Ministry and MACUSA could learn a thing or two from the Fitchburg Finches’ security. A very large, very gruff man snorts at Newt.

“You British or somethin’?”

“Quite,” Newt tries to smile winningly. “I’m not suspicious, just need to fetch my Bowtruckle.”

“What’s that? Sound like fishy business.”

“Oh, _yes_.” Newt says hopefully. “Could you have someone investigate me? Surely there’s an authorized MACUSA agent on the premises. Brown hair, intelligent eyes?”

The stadium explodes in whistles in cheers. Newt thinks about weaseling his way through in the momentary distraction, but the thought of Tina’s face stops him.

“Maybe you could have someone retrieve him for me,” tries Newt, heart sinking. He doesn’t recall security ever being this tight at Continental matches. Maybe it’s because of the impending war.

In that moment, a flash of blue coat enters his vision.

“Newt?”

“Tina!”

“Tina?”

Newt actually does barrel the security officer aside (some bruising may occur tomorrow on his shoulder) to step a few feet into the tunnel.

Unfortunately, Tina’s already turned her back to him, toward a very tall, windswept-looking seeker.

“Teddie!”

“Tina! We won!” Ted exclaims again, swinging the girl into a hug.

Newt, heart dropping further, is about to make a hasty retreat, when a familiar spindly green shape silhouettes against Tina’s coat, protesting the hug as vocally as Newt is, inside.

“Oh, Pickett!” Tina says, pushing Ted off and cradling the Bowtruckle. “Sorry about that!”

“We’re doing a victory lap now, Tina. Stay and wait for me?” Ted asks, clearly not seeing Newt or the Bowtruckle as he eyes only Tina.

“Thanks Teddie, but…” Tina shoots a small, secretive smile at a yammering Pickett (bless that Bowtruckle. Newt’s going to buy him a grand old Yule log). “I think there are people waiting for me. I’m just glad no one’s made an attempt on your life after all. My job is done.”

“I’ll probably still play in the Militia,” Ted says, finally noticing Newt (who has decided, against all reason, to stand his ground). A curious look enters his face. “You could come watch.”

“You’ll be busy, and you know I’ll be busy, too,” Tina says. “It was good to see you again, Teddie.”

Ted smiles, as if he’s guessed at something. He then nods meaningfully at Newt. Newt manages a small answering nod as the man saunters off with his teammates.

Closing the distance, Tina tucks Pickett back into Newt’s pocket.

“Where’d security go? Don’t tell me you set the Swooping Evil on them.” Tina tries, and fails, to sound cross, her smile already tugging at the ends of her mouth.

“Er,” Newt says, momentarily unsure by the sight of her in the flesh and not through his Sneakoscope.

She leans past him to peer down the tunnel. “Oh, there’s our answer.”

Queenie’s well-rehearsed giggle echoes against the walls, before shouts and cheers erupt across the stadium once more. Newt imagines that the victory lap is going very well for Ted.

Good.

As his fingers intertwine with Tina’s, Newt is more than content to do a modest victory lap of his own.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for WAFF, my gifts to myself and you during these exam times. 
> 
> Also, I imagine there's some sort of American Magical Militia or Minutemen, and it makes me super happy.
> 
> Will take requests! But will make a pact with myself to study, too, because law is hard.


	7. Waking Moments, Unconstant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long distance during brewing wartime must be hard. Inspired by PotO, if anyone caught the words.
> 
> So subtle you'll need squinting glasses.
> 
> It's official now, that these aren't necessarily in chronological order.

.

.

 

Tina lays aside the newspaper that counts lifetimes come and gone. She lays it in the warm puddle of lamplight, next to his ticket and suitcase. The cast of its shadow melts into a soft darkness as she sets her wand down, padding across the living room to the balconette.

Through the border of iron trellises, she catches pieces of Newt, bathed in the glow of moon and starshine, gazing at the New York sky. She cracks the window, her feet leaving cool floorboard and matted rug to touch, barefoot, against the rusted iron. The rust underfoot belongs to several centuries of dreamers, movers, gazing at the cityscape where it kisses the horizon each dawn and dusk.

Newt is perched against the iron railing, very still. He doesn’t turn as the cool early morning air wraps around them—Tina shivers—disturbing the only hours of peace in this city.

“You miss it,” she breathes.

“No.”

“—you do. Otherwise this wouldn’t...” _Be happening_ , she doesn't finish.

His breath catches anyhow, and she’s so scared, scared he’ll tumble down, or take flight, unreachable, scared he’s no longer in need of her small nest in an unfamiliar concrete jungle.

“There’s a lot that I can’t find in England. Europe. Anywhere.”

“Anywhere but _here_.”

“Anywhere,” he repeats.

She’s silent. Her heart _longs._ But there’s so much left unsaid because there’s a right time to say it, and it’s not right now.

The sky is melting, dark velvet into cordial, pink seeping into the edges Tina can’t see from her seat. Her toes curl against the metalwork, and she wonders how long it will take her heart to rust over, once he’s gone.

Newt’s voice is suddenly urgent, spilling out like the morn.

“Say-say you’ll share—”

“With you? Always.”

As soon as it leaves her mouth she knows.

Too much. Tina shouldn’t.

Newt, too, knows he can’t receive this. The tear of his voice is palpable.

“I can’t—”

“ _Stay._ ”

Tina begs, and, oh, she’s honest, fully.

The dam almost breaks. She’s lost. She’s always thought she was stronger than this, more patient. She’s in love, a cage so powerful she would go anywhere, hold onto any ledge. It scares her.

“Just one request,” she murmurs fiercely. “Those anywheres you’re going to, let me go too."

Newt's eyes are wide, searching.

"One day. Doesn’t have to be now," she says.

“Anywhere?”

“Say it. _Promise me._ ”

His touch is like a plea, a prayer. Tentative and reverent and unknown.

“I-I have no right.”

Her tears will dry in the daylight, just not now. Dawn breaks slowly, sometimes. Tina's voice trips over the words she’s not sure of anymore, reverently, like a plea, a prayer.

“Y-you said you lo—”

Newt's hand is against her hair, flitting to her ear. His voice is a whisper.

“You know I do.”

Each night. Each morning.

A lifetime.

One day.

Just not today.

 

.

.

 


	8. Jazzy Reunion, Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still shipper trash. Sigh.

.

.

 

Tina taps her foot to the beat, more out of impatience than anything else. While the Roaring Twenties are sputtering to their end, Marathon Dancing as an extreme sport has not, and the unbridled enthusiasm of the dance floor descends into utter chaos as the hours drag on. There’s spilled Pinnock’s Giggle Water on the sticky floorboards, and altogether too much joy for a (her) work night.

The investigation tonight is the first lead of widespread corruption she’s had in weeks. She’s rusty, and she needs to make her move, soon.

Her constant wallflower pose is a bit too conspicuous, perhaps. Tina peers toward the other side of the dance floor, where rounded tabletops hold poker games and refreshments. One of the tables glisten with wizarding gold and two wandless men with suitcases. Such quantities of gold alone would be conspicuous among the No-Maj world. That’s why security is so tough in this place—it’s paramount that no non-wizards discover this den.

She shrugs off her coat, glad she wore her beaded dark dress underneath as she edges closer to the dancing throng.

“Excuse me, Miss. If I may?”

He’s winsome grin and dark, polished hair. Tina tries what she hopes is a coquettish smile, takes the proffered arm, and leads them purposefully-but-not-too-purposefully toward the dance floor, in the direction of the gold transaction.

Sheer athleticism pulled her through dance classes during fourth year at Ilvermorny. Tina has a regular rhythm, and a snap to her steps, but Tina would much rather do an enlivened, purposeful march to her targets, not be pulled close and—ugh—relive bad Christmas Ball experiences from school days.

As she’s spun around and around, an allegro jazz blaring from the live band, she spots two familiar faces in the crowd.

“Teenie!” comes the familiar laugh.

 _Oh, for the love of_ —her sister, with none other than Jacob Kowalski on her arm, are spinning on the dance floor a few feet away. Jacob looks somewhere between dazed and delighted. Why on earth would Queenie bring Jacob here? There is… well, there are no other nearby wizard dance dens in the city. Still, Tina could strangle something. She has enough to look out for tonight.

She’s struggling to wipe her frustration from her face when her targets move. From the corner of her eye, she sees one of the men prop up his suitcase, and begin to arrange the gold for counting.

“Refreshment,” she commands her partner, moving toward the gentlemen with the suitcase.

“Not sure about that, Sweetheart.” Her hand immediately flits to the purse dangling from her wrist, but her dance partner is faster, extracting her wand with ease, and brandishing his own.

So her wallflower act _was_ too conspicuous.

The jazz ebbs momentarily, signaling the end of a song. Suddenly both Tina’s and the criminal accomplice’s wands are whizzing through the air to the tune of a barmy saxophone solo.

The items land in the outstretched hands of a tall fellow in a tailored, soft-looking plum suit. In the dim light of the den, his hair is a warm copper, and his eyes deep blue-green.

“So sorry,” Newt says to a frenzied group of dancing couples as he tucks the wands into his pocket. “Sir,” he directs his gaze to Tina’s assailant, “I believe that’s my—my _friend_ you’re dancing with.”

“ _Friend_ ,” the man says incredulously.

Newt mutters something with his wand, and the man crumples in Tina’s arms.

“Special friend,” amends Newt, face starting to resemble his suit, as he weaves through the throng to stand close to her. “Er, Tina, it’s good to see you ag—” He is stopped as the jinxed man is deposited unceremoniously into his arms by aforementioned girl.

Tina rushes to the table, but it’s already been cleared of gold and men.

“ _Oh drat_ ,” she moans. “This is terrible. Those No-Maj’s made off with half a fortune.”

Newt sidles up next to her. “Not quite,” he says thoughtfully.

She brushes off his placating tone, still furious. _Stupid stupid stupid._ How could she have messed this job up? She let herself get distracted by her own pride, Queenie and Jacob, and now this—

“Dance?” Newt asks hopefully.

Tina turns on him. “How can you think of dancing right now?”

“We are in the middle of a dance club,” he says, alarmed. “I assume American dancing can’t be that complicated. And I had a proper tutor, once. Incredibly patient man.”

“I let them get away!” She’s coming awfully close to griping, dumping her career insecurities on the newly returned Englishman. “I need to find that gold!”

For such a normally bewildered person, Newt is surprisingly suave as his steady hands lead her back onto the dance floor. Tina gets another eyeful of a rapturous Queenie and Jacob, now doing a slow waltz nearby. Queenie has the gall to shoot her sister a wink.

“Well, let’s just say I may have misplaced my suitcase earlier. One with a Niffler inside,” Newt sighs, close to Tina’s ear. “And let’s just say that this Niffler doesn’t like leaving a single drop of gold unpocketed, when he comes back to us.”

She pulls back to stare.

There are a million other questions she wants to ask, too, like when he got back, how he knew she was here, how he knew about the criminals, the accomplice, if Queenie had a hand to play, if Jacob is safe here, and why Newt’s asked her to dance with him _now_.

The force of her stare must be intense. Newt's freckles darken and his fingers on her waist fidgets a bit.

“So… dance?” he whispers, gaze soft.

“O-okay.”

Tina has a regular rhythm, and a snap to her steps, assessed by her fourth year Ilvermorny instructor. But Tina is not sure anything could have prepared her for Newt’s moving close halfway through the waltz, tucking his chin close to her hair, and whispering, “I missed you, Tina”.

 

.

.


	9. Adventures, Unencumbered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Western films were super popular in the silent film era (1894-1927). With the advent of sound in 1927-28, smaller organizations churned out countless low-budget features and serials in the 1930s.
> 
> This piece takes place a little later in their relationship, but still sometime before they're affianced, I imagine.

.

.  
 

“How do I look?” she grins, too excited to feel shy.

“You look like an Amazon,” Newt says stolidly, and flushes—from curly head to little toe—an incandescent red.

“Good,” replies Tina.

 (No one who saw Newt could mistake his words for anything but the greatest, most flattering compliment.)

She finishes rolling up her trousers, just to the knees. Then, deciding it hinders her movement, she deftly rolls the thick fabric up once more. (Newt coughs.) Who knows what dangers lurked in the wild, wild West? Certainly not her—of course she doesn’t watch No-Maj Westerns flicks except for brief moments of very important, very serious Auror research.

Newt’s face still resembles a speckled tomato, but he does his best to match her sober gaze, and extends a hand to hoist her onto the platform.

“I’m good,” Tina says, trying quite hard to level her voice. _Be professional. Be cool.  
_

Inside, she’s an ebullient, over-excited mess. It’s been ages, absolutely ages, since she’s been on holiday, and ever since she and Queenie became orphans, everything has been about keeping them afloat in the big city, paying their bills, doing well at her job, solving crisis after crisis. Tina tries to hide the skip in her step, masking it as an extra, reasonable bounce to reach the platform, as her hand waves aside Newt’s and clasps firmly onto the old stirrup boot.

It’s all very fitting. To arrive in Arizona by Stirrup Boot Portkey.

“I didn’t know you were so looking forward to seeing Frank,” her companion muses.

Strong, golden sunlight peeks past the dusty planks of the saloon, reflecting off of Newt’s hair. Tina marvels at it for a fraction of a second, then moves, her animation no longer containable.

They both rush like moths out of the small alcove, seeking the light source.

“Absolutely,” breathes Tina, as she streaks out the door into the hot, strong beams of Arizona midday. “Oh, this is _absolutely_ incredible.”

The flat desert stretching endlessly around them is tiny crest after tiny crest of gold. Not soft and rolling, like the Middle East, but craggy and dusty and wonderful. Newt himself is dazzled.

“C-careful, Tina.”

She stops, mid-twirl, and looks at him.

“Why? Are there No-Majs here?”

“There’s no one for miles,” He assures her. “But still, I don’t want you tripping on some shrub and getting hur—”

She’s not quite there to hear him. Tina’s running in the direction of the hand pump well, ‘ooh’ing and ‘aah’ing over its design. Clever girl as she is, Newt’s not surprised that she manages to draw water from it by the time he walks over.

He can’t keep the amusement from his voice. “Is it everything you hoped for?”

Tina’s hair is mussed. Her cheek has a smudge of dirt. Her warm eyes sparkle.

Newt tries to contain the soaring feeling in his chest, but finds it very hard, as he laughs with her, sprinkling a few droplets of stubborn water onto his hand as he moves close, to wipe the dirt from her cheek.

She closes her eyes. Just before Newt sees the back of his own eyelids, he feels the light tip-tip-tip of water, which instantly becomes a deluge of thundering, sprinkling rain.

The droplets crash around them like a misted blanket, familiar and fond.

“Frank!” Tina smiles anew, greeting Newt’s old friend.

As Newt watches her—proper, patient Porpentina—stand chin tilted to the sky and hands aloft in welcome to the majestic Thunderbird, he has to amend himself.

 _Their_ old friend.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not obvious, I love the idea of small moments being what solidifies these two.
> 
> Thanks again for all of the lovely, encouraging feedback, friends. I'm bowled over by you guys.


	10. Beloved, Ungreedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I
> 
> This is early in the timeline.
> 
> Wanted to play with the idea of: hey, what if Newt really did decide to love, first?

.

.  
 

The book embodies him.

She’s close enough to the pages to note the faint scent of pine, parchment and travel, close enough to marvel at the crisp texture of the smooth vellum. The black and white type are somehow so much more than words on a page. The author’s heart—immense, warm, and tender—dots every “i” and crosses every “t”.

The trees are dancing with No-Maj electric fireflies as she flips the pages of the book under the flickering street lamp. Central Park is bitterly cold at night, but the swirl of darkness and twinkling small lights feels somehow like a fairy tale when he’s nearby—she’s unafraid. She doesn’t want to go home. Tina, though she’s wont to admit it, wants to keep flipping these pages forever, engrossed in the adventures she’s never had the opportunity for.

“This is wonderful. And today—today was _fun_ ,” she hums self-consciously, unable to look at him:

Newt, who seems to grow more wonderful with every moment, who, on his second visit to America, somehow causes more palpitations than his first. (Though they’re of a different nature.)

The day was like magic. Too much to ask for. Tina never knew Newt could smile like that, tossing peanut shells at elephants. Tina never knew _she_ could laugh like that, watching one curl its trunk around his scarf.

She’s on the last page, her hands brushing over the bound spine, when he moves close on the bench. It’s too soon. It’s too soon to end the magic. Tina flips hurriedly to the front again, tracing the words, pretending to be engrossed in the words. Anything to extend this moment. She hopes it’s not too much to ask.

“So, who's the mystery woman you’re thanking in the last line, Mr. Scamander?” Tina tries a small chuckle.

A warm hand meets her wrist, tentative, brushing her pulse point.

“It’s you.”

His voice quavers with sincerity.

She can’t see the flush of his face, but the dip of his chin, the self-conscious, frustrated press of his lips, is enough.

His hand closes on her wrist fully. “I-I’ve thought of you often, Ms. Gol— _Tina_. So often, in England, in Ethiopia. All the places that didn’t have… you.”

She’s only human, under her armor.

(She’s falling.)

“Y-you’re the most wonderful woman I know. Brave, strong, sacrificial, _beautiful_. And I hope you don’t mind if I—if I—”

She’s _only human_.

So Tina is helpless as she leans in, drawn by his gravity.

“Ever since I left that dock, I’ve regretted it, you know. I didn’t think I would be enough.” His eyes never leave hers as he cradles her cold wintry hand, pressing it to his warm, warm lips.

She feels the soft smile against her skin.

His eyes draw her in, and the small, tell-tale laughing crease at the corner creases, as if he’s sharing a wonderful, fantastic secret.

“It’s fairly ridiculous how perfect you are, Tina,” Newt breathes.

Tina’s heart seizes.

She can’t.

Tina turns her head at the last moment, violently removing her hand at the next.

It slides easily out of his relaxed, surprised grip.

“Let’s not,” she blurts.

_Let’s not fall in love._

There will be heartbreak, broken promises, undue pressure, traps that are easier for the world to spring on them, when they’re together. She wants to spare him those things. And Tina, she’ll be fine. Has always been fine. Tina has a good thing going. She has a _thing_ going.

(You just want to protect yourself.)

(Well, if that’s true, it just proves the point, doesn’t it?)

(It does.)

She’s not—never was, will never be—the perfect girl Newt thinks she is. She won’t have him—good, earnest—Newt, love a lie. Or, worse yet, love her, just Tina.

Tina steps back from the bench, lump in her throat, hands empty and cold.

 

.

.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dodges peanut shells*


	11. Beloved, Unsure

 

.

.

“Tina!” Jacob shouts as he enters the living room. “I just heard that Newt’s in trouble for unlicensed manhandling of, uh, No-Magic merchandise on 6th and Lexington. That’s illegal, yeah?”

Tina pokes her head out from her newspaper.

Jacob stares back, resolute. Occasionally his eyes dart toward Queenie, who’s sitting oh-so-primly on the sofa, trying to be inconspicuous.

“Queenie…” Tina says warningly.

“Very illegal. Very dangerous,” repeats Jacob, with gravitas.

“Very,” says Queenie, before succumbing to the look her elder sister shoots her. “Oh, _come off it_ , Teen, you know it’s Newt’s last full day here before his ship leaves!”

Tina tastes acid. “We’ve had this conversation, Queenie.”

“Dangerous,” echoes Jacob.

Her sister practically leaps off the sofa, running toward her cabinet dossier and pulling out leaf after leaf of rumpled parchment. Then, Queenie bundles them up in her arms, like Tina’s seen her do with kittens or hamsters or even small mice (Tina never let them have pets, growing up), and deposits them into Tina’s lap, watching them flutter and settle like lead weights.

“There.”

Tina gapes at the painstakingly uniform, lopsided scrawls. “You _said_ those were from admirers.”

“Sure, Newt admires me. He thinks I’m helpful. Because I’m honest about my feelings about the two of you,” Queenie sniffs. “Unlike you, Teenie. You’re moping because you don’t think you’re good enough for him. Well, _you are_. At least Newt’s brave enough to face this.”

Jacob nods, crossing the threshold to put a hand on Queenie’s shoulder. “You and Newt. Both of you’s exactly what the other needs.”

The realization of her sister’s correspondence with one Newton Scamander renders her mute. Tina tries not to think sour, envious thoughts, self-disparaging ones either, but the stress in her limbs is a lead weight. Work has been piling up, and Tina’s body is sore every day from hunching over her desk or running through sewer passages. Still, it’s better than her heart being sore too. Short term loss, long term gain, as they say.

“Jacob and I don’t regret a thing, Teenie,” says Queenie, softly.

“Don’t read my thoughts,” she growls.

“It’s been worth it, every up and down.” Jacob’s words are sincere and dazzling. Queenie gives a small, delighted sound. Her beau catches on quick, for a non-legilimens. The happy but publicly disparaged couple are rubbing off on each other.

“Though there’s not really any downs,” Jacob laughs, as Queenie’s eyes sparkle fondly.

“Making people happy is not easy, Queenie. I’m not—” Tina starts, only for her sister to interrupt.

“You’re not me, and that’s good, Teen. You’ll make someone so happy in the ways I can’t. And that’s Newt, if you’ll let yourself.”

Queenie’s voice is trembling but sharp, as it has always been on occasions when Tina realizes her little sister’s raised her, just as much as the converse.

But Tina’s stubborn.

So stubborn she despises herself, sometimes.

“Newt,” tries Tina. “Is off gallivanting through the world! Having adventures! _Saving creatures and people alike!_ There’s no reason for him to keep making pit stops in New York. I-I’ve gotten his book now, and it’s more than I could hope for,” she finishes in a small voice.

It’s Jacob who claps a reassuring but gentle hand on her back.

“Hey, you save people too, Ms. Auror Investigator. And as I said, Newt could use a lotta saving right about now.”

She’s on her last leg, a proud creature too stiff to bow.

“He won’t want to see me, after… after I ran away.”

Queenie’s eyes flash.

“Teenie, Jacob and I are going to prepare dinner for four. _Go._ ”

 

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II end.
> 
> Fluff warning for Part III: aka I FINALLY get to fulfill one of my earliest headcanons for Newt. It's probably not what you'd expect. But maybe yes?
> 
> You have been warmed/warned. Yikes.
> 
> I need to sleep.


	12. Beloved, Unfailing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III and end to this small section. 
> 
> Just a quick disclaimer. The conclusion's not grand and sweeping, dear friends. 
> 
> I hope you'll find the small, amusing moments to be just as effective, though. That's my fervent wish for this story, and what sets it apart from the whole dragon battles and limping war!Newt I wrote previously. 
> 
> I'm just gonna refer y'all to that famous Gandalf quote and keep chugging. :D Wheeee.

.

.

 

Manhandling is one word for this scenario.

Tina swoops down the street in ballooning trousers and her old brown loafers (though she let Queenie brush her hair), until she finally arrives, splashing through the puddle of engine grease and seizing a far too chipper-looking Newt by the sleeve.

“You came!”

His expressions is hilarious, and she’d laugh if she were in the mood for it. Newt’s lips seem unsettled about whether to frown or smile.

Either way, it splits his freckled face with such honest feeling, it wrings her heart.

She finds herself unable to stare directly at his ruddy hair and bright eyes. The drumming in her ears is traitorous. Uneasy feelings of guilt and want coil inside and around her, and she masks it with business.

Tina casts a muffling and misdirection charm over them, as people continue to walk past the small street.

The No-Maj vehicle is current languishing in the last throes of mechanical life on the side of the street. Tina recognizes it as Ford Model A, from her pile of “ _1927’s New Dangers on the Streets_ ” cataloguing work she’s just done.

“So,” she coughs. “What’s the big idea, Mr. Scamander?”

Newt’s mood finally settles on a damp sort of somberness. “Sorry, _please_ , at least call me Newt. I understand I was… forward the other night, and I truly apologize if I did anything you weren’t ready for.” He blinks. “But I hope it’s not enough to ruin our friendship."

He’s so good. (Too good for her.) Tina hides her ache with a harrumph and clambers into the No-Maj contraption.

“Why do you even have one of these? Mercy Lewis, look at these gears. No-Majs are so—”

“Resourceful,” finishes Newt.

He flutters ambivalently close, then distant, trying to be helpful but not overbearing, as Tina maneuvers herself against the seating of the car. “I tried a _reparo_ spell already, but I’ve no clue as to the proper arrangement, and things only got worse. It spit oil on my best suit. I did get that off, though.”

Tina steals a confirmatory glance (oh dear, he _does_ look rather dapper, bowtie and all), and quickly taps her wand against the dashboard, pointing toward the engine. _“Reparo.”_

The great, clanking machine roars to life, ignition a soft chug. Newt jumps a bit in surprise and then scrambles into the front himself, slamming his foot onto the brake pedal, as if he’s scared the thing will drive off by itself with Tina inside.

“I’ve always preferred brooms, myself,” Newt says wistfully over the low hum. “But Theseus always said you can’t take a lady, unless she’s doing that ridiculous side-saddle business. I thought this would be better.”

He looks meaningfully at her beside him, grin infectious. Tina was paying too much attention to his words to have time to look way.

“Friendly ride?” Newt looks so eager.

Tina swallows. “Straight to MACUSA headquarters, you mean.”

“Anywhere. We can even make this airborne and fly to Paris, if you like. See the Seine.” 

“Not sure I would like that,” says Tina, a bit breathless. “I’ve always had both my feet attached to the ground.”

“Alright,” says Newt, and Tina swears she hears him mutter something like ‘ _Jacob swore a nice car was a sure thing_ ’ under his breath. Newt rolls his shirtsleeves up a notch, revealing toned, sun-kissed forearms as he puts both hands firmly on the steering wheel. “Then shall we try rolling along the ground, first?”

Tina snaps her eyes back to his face. “Is this even licensed?”

“No, but I bought it with my own money.” Newt’s fingers drum against the new leather. “I’m entitled to a spin on my new purchase after a good opening week of book sales, I suppose, before I make a generous donation to MACUSA.”

“I guess,” says Tina, her mind still unraveling this whole thing. “For charity.”

“MACUSA has a muggle, sorry, No-Maj investigations team, right? We have one at the Ministry, and they’re the poorest department of the lot, except maybe for House Elf Relocation Services.”

 

* * *

  
 

There’s something strangely calming about riding with one Newt Scamander, after you get past his propensities for slamming into post office mailboxes and wooden crates, as they zig-zag through relatively deserted alleyways. Several times, Tina has to repair the engine again.

“I have to apologize,” says Tina when they’re humming past traffic. “I thought I’d have scared you away.”

Newt makes a thoughtful noise, as he urges the automobile onto a winding gravel road, past the bridge turnpike. “I think you underestimate me, sometimes.”

Tina wants to disappear into her seat. Or be ejected with a push-button spring, like in those funny children’s stories. But for the sake of the No-Majs she whisks away from vehicular danger, she imagines that she should stay.

“Just as I may overestimate you,” Newt adds, honking enthusiastically at an alarmingly-close florist delivery truck as Tina clutches her seat. “I think we both have considerable things to learn about each other.”

Over the put-put of the engine, he adds. “But I’d like to.”

Tina—stuck in a No-Maj automobile, with a magicked engine, driven by an English magizoologist who has just proffered a bluebell at her—figures today is not one of those days to split hairs.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she says, putting her bluebell aside as they pass the turn onto the highway. “Please go slow.”

Newt slows the car considerably, down to a slower than normal pace, as he gives a wave at a grumpy No-Maj behind them.

“Not that,” Tina says, the hint of a smile on her features.

Newt laughs. “I understand. Please trust me.”

“I do. I’m just a control freak about everything.”

“Not _everything?”_

“Yes,” Tina says, feeling miserable. “I’m terrified of failure.”

“Do you mind, though?” he asks suddenly.

“Mind what?”

“Failing. I've failed at a great many things in my life, and I don't intend to stop now, just because of the past. I don’t think that ought to be the only reason I'm not honest now. Do you mind—Miss Goldstein, I mean, _may_ I see you as my…” His hands flutter about the steering wheel, gesticulating at the wind.

“Sure. Yes,” Tina says quickly, anything to firm up Newt’s grip on the wheel.

They take a sharp swerve anyway, and Tina thanks the stars they’re on a road toward the boroughs, away from traffic.

“And may I,” Newt starts when they’re on the right side of the road again. “Visit again after this trip, even without a new publication.”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

“Perhaps k-kiss you one day.”

“One day,” Tina gasps. “Again, I’m sorry about… that. That was rude of me, running away.”

They cruise to a fork in the road. _West End_ , the sign reads cheerfully. _New Construction Ongoing._

“I’m not sure where this takes us,” Newt says.

“I’m not sure either,” says Tina.

They take it anyhow.

The scenery around them shifts several times, through run-down brick, steel lattice, meadow, and sparse plain. Eventually, the car sputters to a halt next to a small, grassy enclave next to the road. The view overlooks the the bay, where winter’s early-setting sun is already dappling the water into pink and gold diamonds, and not the murky, polluted thing Tina sees from her MACUSA work window.

Newt hops off the car, apparating quickly to her side. He opens the door and holds out a hand to her. When she steps off, she realizes there’s an unfurling carpet at her feet—one that looks suspiciously like the small rug Mrs. Esposito keeps in the guest room.

Tina allows herself a smile. “Truly an English gentleman.”

Newt turns reliably red. “Your sister helped with the details. More than just details, actually.”

“I know you’re a great admirer of hers,” she teases. “There may have been more letters to her than to me.”

“It’s easier to write to someone who’s not terrifyingly amazing.” After the words are out, Newt again flushes beetroot in color. “I-I mean, you’re not _perfect_. I’m not putting you on a pedestal. You’re just more… to _me_ … I mean, ah, your sister’s lovely, too. There’s no insult, no ill will meant by my wor—”

“I am terrifying,” Tina concedes, stepping close to the ledge, looking out at the water. “Or I can be, at times. I’m stubborn and pessimistic.”

“Determined and pragmatic,” he amends.

“Boring and plain.”

A grimace. “Patently false.”

“I could go on,” Tina hedges. “But then I’d just be fishing.”

“Already hooked.”

Her snort turns into a laugh. “Did you ever think that this would never work?”

“Many times,” Newt says honestly. “Every letter, every word I penned, I was wondering how you'd respond, how your sister and friends would laugh, how my family would be in shock. But then one day... I realized. Greater, more improbable things have happened.”

“Like what?”

“Like you... fancying _me.”_

It’s Tina’s turn to flush, and reflexively, she starts to edge away, only for Newt’s hand to reach out to cup hers, his grip loose but sure—like the contradiction she knows they both are.

“I’m sorry,” Newt breathes urgently. “I’m sorry, but Queenie told me… and it taught me to hope. So-so may I? I mean, _is it true?”_

“It’s true,” she says in a voice so small, he can hardly hear her.

She can’t look at him. Her heart’s drumming away in her ears again and she can’t do much but lean against his warm, decidedly solid shoulder as he clutches her tightly in an embrace.

“Sorry,” he murmurs against her ear. “I-I can’t seem to let go. My legs and arms don’t seem to be functioning properly.”

“I can _reparo_ it,” Tina replies faintly. “We can’t have you breaking down by the side of the road. We still have to make it home for dinner.”

“You can try,” Newt hums. “Though I imagine the opposite effect could happen. But I’m willing to take that risk.”

Tina doesn’t need to ask, to be certain.

She turns her head.

And Newt’s kiss is the most tentative, human, and magical thing she’s ever known.

 

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. *hangs head and blushes* Newt driving a vintage car is my secret (no longer secret) fangirl fantasy.


	13. A Gift, Unbidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing lots of finals right now, so this is just a fun, self-indulgent thing about how I think Mauler eventually comes about. (Mauler mommy, maybe!)
> 
> Also, I imagine Theseus to be one of those slightly self-centered but still lovely people in our lives. He grows out of it and becomes an adult eventually, though.

.

.

 

Theseus’ birthday rolls around once a year—

—quite like other people’s birthdays.

This is where the similarities end. As firstborn of the Scamander household, he’s never been quite as famous nor quite as ambitious as some of his childhood neighbors, his Hogwarts mates, and now his Ministry coworkers. Still, Theseus has never let his mediocre start pin him down. He’s always celebrated the turning of an age meticulously, by lavishly and publicly partying with friends and privately making resolutions for his new year as others make on an arbitrary calendar spot in winter.

But now that he’s closer to his mid-life crisis than his quarter-life one (it never really did happen), Theseus, newly minted Head Auror, realizes the joys of keeping a low profile for the day.

“Lily,” he smiles as another copy desk girl flounces into his office with her heart on her sleeve and a package in her hands. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She wilts, and gives him a sour look. “Rose, actually.”

"Sure." Theseus gestures farewell with his free hand, as the other signs a piece of paperwork.

“Mr. Scamander,” his fill-in secretary rings. The young man sounds a bit harried, and Theseus breathes a small sigh for the death of competence in this cruel world. His regular is a severe, terribly efficient lady in her mid-forties. She was the absolute best in keeping away extraneous visitors, but her niece is sick, and with the promotion and birthday, there’s no one to hold down the fort against the queuing line trailing out the hallway.

“The Minister sent along a gift.”

“Oh.” Theseus’ birthday is not lost. “Excellent. I’ll personally write that thank you note. What is it?”

“A cat of some sort,” the voice gasps.

“Odd,” says Theseus. “Any reason?”

“He said you liked animals.”

“Sure.” Theseus feels strangely touched that his little brother’s fame is starting to rub off on _him_. “I love ‘em.”

“Well, maybe you can keep him in your office for the moment… Sir,” the secretary’s voice drifts off weakly.

Theseus gets up to comply, but, if he were more honest, to avoid the influx of gifts. He notices a gaggle of girls who look suspiciously familiar coming up in the queue. Maybe it’s time to settle down after all.

When he steps into the side office, a mottled ginger thing yowls at him from a patch of shredded sofa cushion that was meant for disgruntled human guests. The new secretary (Drew? Dave?) makes a noise of relief.

“Merlin, it’s ugly.”

“Do you mind?” the fill-in looks faint. “It threw a fit when I tried removing it from my leg.”

Theseus peers down at the orange thing. He used to think that, when Newt was five, Theseus could just _stare_ his brother into understanding his shortcomings. Five-year old Newt was never good at adapting accordingly.

Same with this cat. It just stares back.

“Why don’t you call my brother?” Theseus suggests to his aide. “It’s my birthday. It’s a travesty Newt’s not here to congratulate me.”

 

.

.

.

 

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Are you talking to the cat, or me, your most beloved, most treasured brother?”

“Just you. None of those false descriptors you stuck on.”

“My ego isn’t impenetrable, Newt, merely elastic. Say—” Theseus brightens. “Why don’t you give the cat to your landlady in London? It’ll keep her company during the bomb raids.”

Theseus’ sense of humor has always been incorrigibly twisted. And people thought Newt was the strange one in the family.

“This one’s not a cat. She’s a kneazle.”

“Kneazle, then. Kneazles are much better.”

The terrible thing yowls from the center of the bubble charm Theseus made, seemingly doing its best to be utterly horrifying.

Newt looks fond. “Yes, they are.”

“Good,” Theseus shudders. “You arrange a home for it, in any case."

“Her."

“Alright.”

Newt stands up to leave. “I’ll need to get a soothing charm for her. Poor thing can’t handle rough travel right now. Maybe I’ll bring my suitcase.”

“Your Tina will be jealous," the Auror muses. "This kneazle’s a frisky one, so watch out.”

_“What?”_

“I said she’s a frisky one so w—”

“No, before that.”

“Tina? Porpentina Esther Goldstein?”

“Y-you… know her name?”

“Soon to be Porpentina Scamander, I trust?” Theseus shuffles around some papers on his desk, the vision of shining innocence. “Surely you don’t think they promoted me because I’m bad at my job.”

“Your job is to investigate _crime_.”

“I happen to have a little brother who’s prone to mischief.”

"Liar."

"Humor me in my old age. It _is_ my birthday."

Newt makes an indignant noise in response, and, to Theseus’ amusement, so does the kneazle.

“I think she likes you, Newt. Your charm has finally set in. I'll tell Dad. Chip off the old block, really.”

 

.

.


	14. Noteworthy Things, Unheard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, friends, I'm fangirl trash.  
> I write my happy Eddie/Newt blurred lines fanfics. What else is new. Whump whump.

.

.

 

Sometimes, the other people in the room talk like they have a secret.

“Did you know?” Jacob smiles at Tina’s sister, all warm eyes and affectionately quirked eyebrow. It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon, and the house smells of fresh coffee and powdered sugar.

Queenie nods quickly, gushing with pleasure. “Ooh! How’d you find out? He’s not quite gotten the hang of it yet, in his head.”

“Yeah, his head, right. Head’s always in the clouds nowadays. I swear he almost off’ed himself helping me carry the deliveries of sugar today. But then I heard it. Out loud.”

Tina _leans-_

“D’you think…?”

_-In._

“No!”

“Ahem,” a voice interrupts as a figure strides into the room. His curling mop of hair is doused with a sparkling purple sand and his shoes are trailing pungent smelling ooze onto the carpet, but otherwise, Newt looks as he always does after midday chores—utterly mystifying.

“Sorry,” Newt says carefully, his eyes flitting to Tina’s spot on the armchair, smiling slightly as she snaps her newspaper up to hide her red face. “I don’t think the smell’s coming off without soap. Queenie, do you think I could—?”

“Oh, honey, absolutely.” Queenie fusses a bit as she whisks two starchy and well-pressed towels from the cabinet. “Down the hall to the right. You remember, from last time?"

“Right. Thanks.”

Queenie and Jacob exchange quick glances.

“Uh, I’ll get you the soap, Newt.” Jacob follows Queenie’s pointed finger, then trails out the door after the Englishman.

_Hm._

Tina’s investigator probe is more than piqued. It’s _stressed_.

She drums her fingers nonchalantly against the tiny printed words she’s not read. Not one. “So... what’s that?”

“What’s what?” Queenie’s wide-eyed. Her sister could cry crocodile tears—Tina’s always been able to tell the difference.

“Don’t play innocent,” Tina huffs, once the men are down the hall. “What’re you hiding? And what are you _thinking_ , letting Newt shower here?”

“Mrs. Esposito’s still down in Florida, resting her poor joints,” Queenie hums. “And you can’t expect us to shove Newt off to his cold, _lonely_ hotel right this moment.”

“Newt and I are having dinner at the Carlton tonight. It’s not called shoving them off if you’ve got plans later.”

“Aha! So you admit it. You’re leaving me ‘n Jacob in the dust with your high-roller boyfriend.”

“Only special occasions! And you knew about dinner,” Tina interjects, flustered as only the subject of Newt can make her flustered. “You’re the legilimens!”

“When you let me. Sometimes. Often.” Queenie laughs, turning as Jacob reappears, bristly and smug and sporting a familiar smirk. She gives him a look in return as the baker stifles what sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

It’s only a moment of pregnant silence before they both burst out into peals of it. Jacob’s rumbles good-naturedly from his center and Queenie swipes at the corner of her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Tina asks, flabbergasted, and puts away her newspaper for good. “Why are you laughing?”

“O-oh, nothing, Teenie. Here, be a dear and take Newt some slippers will you?”

Tina grimaces. “You can just transport them there.”

Queenie almost dissolves into laughter again. Tina knows from the dimple that jumps in her little sister’s cheek. “Wouldn’t you rather know, Teen?”

“Know what?”

Jacob chortles. “It’ll make ya cry. Guaranteed.”

“What? Something about Newt?” Tina is less puzzled and more slightly worried. “Oh no, he hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble, has he?"

“Should we tell her?” Jacob’s eyes dance.

“Oh, it’ll be so mean to poor Newt.”

“Nah, he’s pretty good. Just heard it, bringin’ him extra soap.”

Tina jumps up defiantly, startling the other occupants of the living room with her warning tone.

“If you two don’t, I will. Find. Out.”

Queenie whispers a quick _“sonorus”_ , eyes crinkling as she waves her wand, pointing at the pipes leading out to the hall, to the bathroom.

It’s hard to describe.

An almost unearthly sound floats out of the pipes toward them, settling into every nook of the room. Angel? Voice of heaven? There’s something more familiar about it…

Tina gapes. “Mercy Lewis, that’s—”

“Very good, I must say. Much improved,” Jacob enthuses in a mock-English accent, while Queenie gives a delighted laugh. “You’d think he’d be more cautious about it, standoffish as he was the first time we met him.”

“Oh, Jacob, that just means we’re really his friends, now. He _trusts_ us.”

“He’s not gonna trust us after this.”

“It’s lovely." Queenie waves a hand in the air. "Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Here comes the best part,” Jacob grins.

And it is, in a shamefully wonderful way. It sets Tina’s heart topsy-turvy. It sets butterflies off in her stomach. All that over-the-top stuff, accompanied by this over-the-top rendition.

“That’s two extra syllables after ‘you’. I dunno if it works with the tune.”

“Shush, Jacob. It’s beautiful. The chorus is my favorite.”

He laughs, and sidles up to Queenie. “Now I wish I sang to my girl. Not that I have a set of pipes like Newt’s.”

“So, Teenie?” Queenie looks down at Tina, who’s melted quite literally and is clutching the carpet with her knees like jelly tucked in front of her.

“W-why didn’t he just _tell_ me?”

“Scared to. Been singing it in his head for days, though.”

“Been humming it throughout the day, too,” Jacob adds. “I-love-you chants. Repeated all sorts a different ways in melodies. He thinks I don't know the lyrics but I _do_.”

Tina claps a hand to both cheeks and issues a frustrated noise. “And just think, all this time, I’ve been such an idiot waiting for him to say it _first_.”

“He knows you’re stubborn, Teenie.”

“Yeah. Newt likes that about ya.”

Tina doesn’t wait for them to finish. She rushes out, trailing the tell-tale sludge on the carpet to stand outside the door emitting a bit of steam. She raps loudly.

Neither Jacob nor Queenie need a magical charm to hear Tina’s declaration, outside the bathroom.

But the listening charm does help, when a whump—

A splash

And a furious pattering of feet is heard from the pipes.

 

Then a door swings.

 

“I hope he remembered a towel,” says Jacob.

 

.

.


	15. Memorial Request, Unabashed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a small break from essay writing.
> 
> Thanks as always for tuning in, friends.

.

.

 

There are two small tablet stones, side by side.

“It was all we could afford.” Her voice decrescendos. “It was all very sudden, and we didn’t have relatives to pool for something fancy.”

“Tina,” Newt swallows, heart in his throat, terrified of not being _good_ enough, in this moment.

“They don’t bite,” Tina smiles, a touch of sadness playing at the corners. Then, taking a breath: “They wouldn’t, even if they were… you know.”

Newt scuffles to the ground, arranging bouquets of bright blooms onto the patchy, wintry grass. Yellows, oranges, blues and pinks carpet the green. He mutters a few incantations, and the stems tendril their way into the loose soil. Newt’s glad he’s done well enough in herbology (Theseus in school days always mixed herbology up with Newt’s actual favorite class) to give life to the flowers, watching curling leaves unfurl and petals become dewy.

“I don’t want to overdo it,” he murmurs anxiously, willing the spell to stop. “Or else the roots extend too far.”

Tina kneels next to him, facing the gravestones. She reaches forward to touch cool stone, sweeping the non-existent dust with her finger. Then, Tina levels her stare to Newt’s.

“It’s okay, Newt. They’re not buried here. Dragon pox deaths were cremated, and the ashes contained.”

His fingers find hers, over the stone.

“Cremation is good for nature. I imagine that’s what I’d like to happen to my body. That way, I’d fertilize things more quickly.”

Tina sighs in mock exasperation.

“Mom, Dad, this is the man I’m dating. I know. He’s got a good heart, despite everything.”

His answering grin is directed at the blue, cloudless sky. “Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein, thank you for your daughter. Actually, both. Both of them are spectacular girls, but Tina especially… she’s half of my heart, which is probably why she thinks it’s any good. A-anyhow, I hope you’ll let me hobble along in life with your daughter. Especially you, Mr. Goldstein, sir. I am… very honored at the privilege of this—this opportunity.”

Tina tries not to chortle, nor to make soft sounds at Newt’s heartfelt exclamation.

A few moments pass.

Newt remains very still, one knee against the pavement, the other in grass. He doesn’t speak, the little muscle in his jaw twitching as if he expects an answer, somehow.

“I don’t think we can truly talk to the dead,” whispers Tina. “Even if Grindelwald promised us the Resurrection Stone’s power, that power's not something we should have.”

“I don’t know if we can communicate,” Newt agrees. “But _if_ we can, and I don’t even _try_ , what kind of unfeeling bloke would they think is consorting with their dear daughter?”

She shakes her head, not sure keeping a straight face is possible if more upper class British-isms escape Newt’s mouth.

“Queenie and Jacob already paid their respects after announcing their engagement,” Tina reminds him. “If you’re going by history, my parents seem fairly accommodating about beaus. More so than I was at first, about those two.”

Newt watches the wistful look on Tina’s face. “Do you miss your parents?”

“Of course,” she replies easily, and her vulnerability speaks to their time together. “Sometimes, I still dream of my mother tucking me in. It’s been just me and Queenie for so long, I worry about forgetting things about them. But—” Her hand squeezes his briefly. “I’m hopeful. I want to take what I remember, and be like them in the future, rather than wallow in the past."

Newt’s ears pink a little, not from cold. “H-how would you feel, if I took you to meet my parents next month? They’re not replacements, but they’ll treat you as family. As I do.”

Tina lets his last admission rest, but raises an eyebrow. “Your brother’s wedding?”

“Yes. If you’ll come, as my date.”

“Will I… do? It’s a large, grand affair, isn’t it?”

Newt smiles. “You’ve been snooping.”

“I got an invitation of my own,” Tina replies. “Via a Ministry owl. My office mates almost saw the letter attached when that dratted bird swooped in and did loop de loops. My grandfather buried over there would roll over.”

“Theseus’ owls are more like peacocks,” Newt admits. “He’s always found them most effective for conveying importance. As for your office finding out, would that have been so bad?”

“No, but they’re all born nosy types. Investigators tend that way. They go on about our relationship, so they’d have bugged you about it.” She looks at him meaningfully. “I wanted _you_ to be the one to ask me to the wedding, or not go at all.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein, your daughter is quite capable, you see,” Newt sighs to the wind. “You shouldn’t worry, regardless of how imperfect I am.”

“The _cheek_ ,” she chides, eyes crinkling. “Jacob would never shirk responsibility like that.”

“I’m not shirking responsibility.” He glides her hand up and kisses her knuckle softly, though his eyes dance like part of him wants to do other, less mild things. Alas, they are in front of her parents’ graves. “I’m just asking for their permission,” Newt informs her. “Hinting at the future, so to speak.”

Tina nods, the drumming beat in her chest signaling she understood.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tina's grandpa bred owls, hence likely cringing at ill-trained (or funnily trained) ones.
> 
> I imagine this one will have a continuation.


	16. Answers, Unprompted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been in my head for a while, so it’s nice to finally give birth to the plot bunny as the continuation of the grave scene. That said, I tweaked the original fanfare ending, since the original’s would have just rehashed some lovely already published pieces, I'm sure.
> 
> I do like the idea that Newt and Tina are dragged into the war a bit differently than previous imaginings.
> 
> Also, I just found out that I have been spelling “Teenie” the wrong way. The horror. D:

 

.

.

 

Tina organizes her world in crisp lines, even if that’s not what draws her soul. The mess, the drama, Tina’s tried (and always failed) to relegate that as _purely other people’s business_ , if only to survive her own. Anyhow, she knows it’s a bit futile.

Happiness and sadness occupy two sides of the same penny, and fate is the mistress who tosses that rusted coin, unfeeling about whether heads or tails prevails, flipping again and again, knowing that balance always wins out.

Gain and loss.

Love and pain.

Still, here she _is_. And, and—

—Newt

on her left

—Spilling his bubbling champagne on the snowy tablecloth as Theseus’ new bride finishes.

Her announcement freezes the reception. Only the small twinkling lights still move about garlands of fragrant lavender.

“What does she _mean_ , she’s leaving the country to fight? I thought she was a _secretary_ ,” Mrs. Proudfoot murmurs from Tina’s right.

It’s answered by another lady (great-aunt or family friend?), who dabs ferociously at her eyes while trying quite hard to look disapproving.

“Works in the auror office now. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. Girls shouldn’t be working along with the boys. Gives them _ideas_. What’s poor Theseus supposed to do without a real bride? He’s much too good for her.”

Theseus is himself, even in the midst of shock. He’s handsome and poised on the elevated platform, looking somber, his eyes full of emotion as he seizes his goblet and hoists it high, into the air.

His voice is commanding, a natural leader. But Tina knows parts of Newt like the back of her hand, so she catches his elder brother’s inflection, his jaw muscle flinching, the quick swallow and shift of his eyes. (He’s nervous.)

“ _My wife_ , ladies and gentlemen. There is no other as brave, as giving, as… loyal.”

Theseus Scamander's final word rings out fine, even as a few murmurs erupt over what bride would be deemed _loyal_ if she signs up a week after their wedding day to go to active battlegrounds to participate, instead of staying here to breed an heir and ensure the line survives.

“In light of the recent attacks, we plan to leave for Paris next week.”

Tina understands.

You draw your linear lines, attend immaculately festooned wedding receptions, but that’s only if you ignore the world exploding around you.

 

.

.

 

After the fifth remark about how _conflicted_ Newt must be for his elder sibling—how this is all such dreadful karma for Theseus—Tina takes him aside.

“My brother wasn’t always the war hero. My parents weren’t always happy about his choices,” Newt tells her. “Theseus enlisted in the Muggle war despite Minister Evermonde’s war laws prohibiting us from involving ourselves.”

Tina mutely swirls her cocktail, watching as it catches the candle light and shines a jewel-like red.

“I heard quite a few British wizards went against those bans.”

“Yes, but no one expected Theseus to.”

“Why?”

Newt grows pensive, watching the movement of Tina’s drink. She can tell it’s difficult for him, knowing his brother well but also coming to grips with the fact that they are two different people, and it _is_ unfair for the world to compare them. The success of his book, or any other accolade, cannot challenge an old wound.

“He’s always been a singular sort of man. Knew he wanted to rise in the Ministry. People think he’s power hungry, but that’s only because Theseus has always ordered his own life. Had a plan for how it would go. And quite a few of us thought his war days were over. That he’d had enough the first go around."

Tina’s heart breaks a little. “Then, is he happy with Ariadne’s decision?”

“She sprung it on him, that she intended to come along. I always thought my brother would pick someone a little more docile. But now I see that was my mistake.”

“Queenie always said that lesser men do. Your brother doesn’t seem that.”

Newt exhales. “No, he’s not.”

 

.

.

 

Theseus' bride walks with silent footsteps reminiscent of Graves’ first lesson to the new hires. Tina’s watching Newt being pumped in the hand by various publishers and nature enthusiasts across the glittering venue, and Ariadne’s low voice catches her by surprise.

“Miss Goldstein. I was crushed when I couldn’t meet you at the rehearsal dinner.”

Tina tries to stifle her surprise. “Call me Tina. MACUSA had last minute briefings on the recent… developments. Their agents arrived at the Ministry very late.”

Ariadne has coils of flaxen hair, which she’s twisted behind her ear. “Yes, I figured. I rather envy you, Tina. Theseus gets this information, but as long as I’m here in England, I’m just his wife. I’m not privy to certain things.”

Tina cannot decide on the appropriateness of this situation.

Theseus’ bride—docile or not—has intelligent eyes. No one can deny the spark of challenge, and then of honest mirth, that enter.

“I envied _everyone._ My fathers and brothers, you, Newt, even Theseus, when I first heard about his promotion in the Ministry circular. That’s when we met, you know.”

“You congratulated him?”

“No, I asked for a more hands-on job, or at least a chance to apply. He negotiated dinner. Then a few months later, we made this promise.” The girl wriggles her ring finger. “If I marry him, I still get to try and save the world, since he got to.”

“He loves you. War is not the only way to save the world,” Tina blurts, feeling like a hypocrite. She tells herself she’s speaking because she likes Theseus, because she doesn’t necessarily think either side is wrong.

But the real reason is more selfish. Tina’s seen the news clippings, the pamphlets, littering Newt’s workshop. For once, he’s invited non-peaceful, non-creature-centered news into his sanctuary. Tina knows how taxing it is for a loved one to face danger day in and day out. Queenie was even a wee bit glad when Tina got demoted.

Between the ebb in music, Theseus rushes over with a casual nod for Tina and a soulful look for his bride. “We need to talk to the Littletons, love. They’ve got a safe house in Paris,” he says. “Ari?”

Ariadne joins his side, her gown swishing as the two press together magnetically, as if they’re afraid to be swept apart. Tina waves them an awkward goodbye, her heart in her throat.

She makes her way to the edge of the ballroom. Call it a sixth sense. She can almost feel his steps as he draws near.

_“Tina.”_

“Newt, I—” She turns and sees the invisible weight on his shoulders, something that the faint flush of champagne could not fix entirely. There’s urgency.

“Tina, we need to _talk._ ”

She puts some distance between them.

“Are you going to ask me to take care of your creatures again?”

Newt's strong hands brush her shoulders, and he steers her behind a gauzy curtain.

His words come in a tumbling rush. “We’re having breakfast with my parents and Theseus and Ariadne tomorrow. They’ll bring up the topic of the war, now that Theseus and his wife are going. I—I intend to tell them my intentions, too. To join.”

A selfish part of Tina wants to shout. _What about me? What about us?_ So she bites her cheek.

This is not the time for selfish requests.

Not the family for selfish people.

“W-will you hear me out first, Tina?”

His eyes are so hopeful, but they’re scared, too. Tina’s glad she can choke out her next words.

“I know you have good reasons to join the war effort, Newt. I won’t stop you.”

His eyes turn downward. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Er, yes, but that’s not what I was going to ask.”

“What were you going to… oh.” She’s _stupid._ So stupid.

Newt stuffs something in his hand back into his suit pocket, frustration marring his features. “N-never mind. It’s not important.”

 _It is! It is to me!_ She’s been alive far too long to think that the world revolved around her wishes and plans, but it still hurts, when the timing doesn’t work out. She’s so ashamed of how her mind races through every recent event, like small stones before an avalanche, as if to try to pick out the incident to blame for Newt’s decision.

Before Newt can turn fully away, she’s clasped her own hand over his, still halfway out of his pocket. It’s bold of her, and they both flush.

“Let me go too, then,” she whispers. “You promised, once.”

“Dumbledore says it’s not safe.”

_“Nowhere is.”_

“Queenie and Jacob are expecting you back next Monday.”

Her voice hitches. “I’ll tell them. Say goodbye properly. What’s one more journey across the Atlantic?”

“They _need_ you, Tina.”

And then he looks at her in such a way that she’s sure—positively, unequivocally sure—that even though his first statement is true, there’s a finishing counterargument to it.

Yes, she’s probably not ever going to stop trying to order her life, drawing pin straight lines and planning everything out. But Tina’s seeking balance in uncertainty, even as she's scared to be swept away from him. Her legs shake as her mouth tastes the champagne on Newt’s lips.

 _“Yes,”_ Tina breathes when they finally part. “For the day you do ask, Newt, the answer is _yes_.”

.

.

 

 


	17. Ally, Unlikely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write something silly.

.

.

 

It starts with tea. Newt thinks that _this_ is the proverbial extended hand of peace.

He’s quick to discover he’s wrong.

“So, from England, huh.”

Newt nods over the obstruction. Before him is the largest, yellowest plate of crumpets he’s ever seen, and Newt is quite certain his host will not allow him to budge until he’s eaten at least half—a third, if she is merciful. There’s biscotti and colorful jams too, wedged between saucers of capers which suspiciously smell of fish.

“Yes ma’am, I’m a friend. Of the sisters.”

_“Bah.”_

He tries quite hard not to look alarmed. Unfortunately, perspiration is a different story, and Newt regrets his snug choice of attire this third trip (and first summer trip) to the City. In the cluttered drawing room, he feels a tiny bead roll down his temple.

The oft-rumored Mrs. Esposito has peculiarly sharp beady eyes, that, together with her nose, bear resemblance to a small, hunched but still powerful bird of prey. Her outfit is austere and smells faintly of mothballs. The very uniform lace trim does nothing to soften the vision.

Likely she can smell fear.

She fixes him with those glinting eyes and takes a sip of tea, siphoning it up through ancient lips as if capillary action works through the medium of air.

“You understand that I’m the _only_ one left making sure those girls don’t get _whisked up in_ _mischief_.”

She skewers him with her eyes again, as if he’s the source of all Mischief, capital ‘m’ and then some.

“Not exactly.” Newt’s smile dies a quick death. “I mean no. _Ma’am._ ”

He switches tactics, maneuvering his tiny silver fork to the center of a truly massive crumpet, larger than most dinner plates, and guides the rubbery thing to his dessert dish, where its edges flop down like a very thick, yellow tea cosy.

“So which one is it?”

“P-pardon?”

“Which one’re you intending to _court?”_

From the tone, Mrs. Esposito may as well have said kidnap, or disfigure, or _end_.

Newt works around a painfully large bite of crumpet. “Muh inten—” he starts.

“ _Don’t_ talk with your mouth full, boy. Is it Tina?”

Newt is still valiantly battling his mouthful. He resembles a nundu, as that bite inches painfully down his esophagus.

“You’re not Queenie’s type, so you can give it up now, loverboy, if _that’s_ who you’re after.” Mrs. Esposito gives a very loud sniff, and Newt has to stop himself from staring at her beak-like nose. “And as for Tina, just know—”

The force of her tiny fork piercing the stack of crumpets is truly formidable. As if she’s had practice.

“—I taught her some charms. She still uses ‘em on the job.”

“Brilliant,” says Newt, and the lump in his chest repositions itself (but maybe that’s just crumpet, finally making its way to his cringing stomach). “I’m fully aware of the risks, but it’s _Tina._ I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Mrs. Esposito seems to ponder this. She plucks out her fork, and leans back in her chair like a queen.

“You English’re always sarcastic.”

“We don’t—er, we try _not_ to be, sometimes.”

She makes a distinctive cackling sound in the back of her throat. “Magical zoolist, huh? What in Great Dane’s Deliverance is that? _You_ want to just waltz in and pluck up a nice American girl like Tina when you make a so-called career outta fooling ‘round with animals? What’ll her poor dead parents think?”

“Maybe,” Newt says. “We’d both prefer to ignore the world’s expectations, if there's no good reason for them.”

Mrs. Esposito cackles again. “And just lookit you. Men should be strong. You look like a bag of bones. How’re you supposed to defend her when you’re romping ‘round the North Pole or wherever you go to?”

He puts aside his half-eaten crumpet and clicks open his suitcase. His rummaging brings up a shiny metal pot.

Newt’s trusted traveling tea kettle sports several impressive dents.

He points to two in particular.

“I fought off a mackled malaclaw with this. And escaped a particularly large yeti in Tibet.”

Not to be outdone, Mrs. Esposito _accios_ a collection of kitchen knives from the counter, causing Newt to shrivel a little in his chair as they zoom by a hair too close.

“ _This_ ,” she points to a curved paring blade. “I cracked fighting off a ghoul in the attic who was trying to kill my husband. While I was pregnant. And with _this._ ” She motions toward an impressive discolored meat cleaver. “I chopped the fingers off a nasty mafioso even MACUSA couldn’t catch.”

Newt blinks.

Then he rolls up his trouser leg and allows the squinting landlady to examine a puckered scar that trails further up than the knee.

“Manticore,” he says. “Escaped the first two bouts. I adopted him, eventually.”

“Humph. My late husband,” sniffs Mrs. Esposito. “Fought one as a boy, once. Spawn of the devil tried to swim across the Ionian Sea.”

It’s two hours later when they eventually call truce.

Newt’s glad he lives to fight another day, at least.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s botched it.

Newt’s not one to mark down holidays, but completely forgetting the time _and_ the holiday— de-fleaing the temperamentally-enormous occamies in his suitcase and then missing the colorful pink and red store fronts as he apparated in the dark, drizzly rain—is a new low. Their appointment was to be at six thirty, their reservation at seven. It’s now eight forty.

Still, he’s conjured a half-decent bouquet of roses, and he hopes these will somehow suffice. He lopes uneasily toward the brownstone’s door, ready to make his apologies. How did Jacob do it, anyhow? Newt is rubbish at baking, flirting, all things he believes girls typically like.

When he reaches for the doorbell, blatant judgment sweeps over him.

The loud gusting wind all but blows him off of the doorstep.

Newt's wilty-looking roses are vortexed away, down the street. The sudden wind has dried his clothes, but, looking down, he notices his travel-worn coat and half-tucked dress suit is now a handsome, brushed gray three piece, complete with a blue silk pocket square. The raiment smells faintly of mothballs.                                                    

Newt thinks he hears a familiar cackle as the door opens and Tina emerges, wrapped in a sturdy coat and eyeing him with a suspiciously watery look.

“Hi,” she says softly.

He blinks, and then, suddenly, realizes he’s holding an enormous bouquet of cheery, blooming marigolds. So Newt rushes headlong into an apology, flowers first.

Eventually, Tina's eyes become half-moons, and she brings the bouquet to her face. “How’d you know these are my favorite?”

“A lot of help,” Newt admits wonderingly.

“Queenie?”

“I wouldn’t disturb Jacob’s big night.”

He leads her down the street, and the umbrella issuing from his wand is large enough for Tina to not cling to his arm. Somehow she does, positioning the marigolds carefully under the canopy as well.

“But next time I come visit, could you tell me what flowers your landlady fancies?”

 

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Mrs. Esposito's husband was in the mafia and wore nice three piece suits. Or something. Anyway, the old lady's a BAMF.


	18. Dockside Plans, Unelaborated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ties up some scenes, from two unconnected previous chapters. It's subtly plotless, haha. Apologies, but I'm sure returning readers know this is not the most plot-ful story.
> 
> With this, I wanted to create some circularity (omg is that even a word). This probably means we are soon reaching the end of this story.
> 
> Thanks as always for tuning in!

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The drift of the clouds against the blue sky is unbearable.

She glares up at them. These clouds are slow, lazy, entitled. Everything she’s rumored to hate.

According to the secretarial staff, Tina has a clock to beat and no heart to wind. Porpentina Goldstein’s a woman with coffee-flavored tar in her cup every morning and gasoline combusting in her veins. Still, she cranes her neck on her rare day off as the ship mimics the cloud overhead. The steel No-Maj thing is enormous and painfully inching its way over to the dockside.

He’s arriving now, to the steamship’s echoing blare.

Tina’s breath catches and she counts the number of young men (it’s hard, from this distance) walking off the gangplank.

After the thirty-seventh thinks she sees his curly top and blue collar and wills her feet to remain firm, lest they threaten to explode into a skipping jig (impatient, impatient) as the man who is just a brownish blueish figure weaves through the throng, unaware of a penetrating investigator gaze latched onto him.

She imagines he fidgets and ducks through customs, but it’s not verified—just a mirror of her own nervousness, watching as the figure finally, finally emerges.

(This must be true _something_ , if she can follow him this easily, in a crowd.)

Those dratted clouds part, and the light hits him just so. Newt’s eyes are vividly green against his shock of freckles, and suddenly, Tina sees them up close, enveloped in an embrace she’s unsure who initiated.

Newt's body feels warm and spacious and firmer than she recalls, but maybe that’s because she’s not touched anyone in months (plowing at work), or because she’s imagined touching him for months (dreaming at home), but then she jumps back and suddenly the air between them is both cold and hot at the same time.

“I’m back, as promised.”

Tina takes in his frank grin, laughing eyes. “It feels unreal.”

“I couldn’t prove otherwise,” he says, and folds her hand over his chest, where his heart beats quick against her fingers for a brief second, before Newt lets go with a flush. “It’s a lot for me, too. You look… well. I have something for you.”

“You can give it to me over lunch.” She ushers him out into the city. “I have a big day planned.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He waves her off at the dock, his fingertips drooping in pulse, and then growing very still, as if glued to the edge of the foggy English skies. His farewell becomes just an awkward, silent palm tilted forward.

And then his whole frame is stretching toward her, starting with the frozen fingertips, now animated and full of life.

Her terse smile melts into a trembling, silent sort of shout.

Perhaps she reaches him first. Their bodies collide—shoulders, torsos, hips, then, shatteringly, noses and lips—until Tina’s sure that whoever invented what she once thought to be a wet, sloppy gesture has actually created one that stretches the human spirit, inspires the divine. Newt’s kiss crashes against her mouth like a rolling tide, and Tina’s insatiable in her need for it to meet her again and again.

But she’s leaving, now, to the steamship’s echoing blare.

“Is this real?” she whispers against him, heart pinching already. “Does this last?”

He folds a hand over hers, draws her fingers inside of his coat pocket. It’s lined on the inside, and pleasantly warmed by Newt’s core. When she slides her hand back out, she’s smiling, examining her finger.

“Magic.”

“You are,” Newt clarifies.

“Where will you be when I get back?”

“Somewhere I can tie up loose ends with my fiancée. I have big plans.”

She knows full well the privileges he’s just given her with the title. It could prove a necessity, during the war, to be bound to each other. There’s a luxury and obligation to her new position that’s beyond anything Tina’s taken on before.

“That’s a promise, then,” she says.

 

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	19. Fangirls, Unappreciative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write WAFF from a distanced POV. Our fandom has others writing truly gorgeous, eloquent, somber fics, so I feel no pressure whilst I goof off in my corner. :)

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Jacob pulls the new blinds over the bakery windows, shielding the inside from the noon's rays. Then, turning, he proffers his arm to his last clientele of the day.

“Closing early every Wednesday _would_ be nice,” she hums.

He grins, dimpling as his finger coasts his mustache. “I’m just thinkin’ it for fun. You know, give my employees a treat.”

“You’re a revolutionary, Jacob,” Queenie enthuses.

And, along with the other unbelievable things she tells him, she _means_ it.

Jacob pinks. “Probably needs more thinkin’.” He glances back ruefully as they trot toward the venue. “My guys rely on the hourly pay, and I rely on the business. All just working folk. Unlike _some_ people we know.”

His words are not envious, but capped off with a good-natured wink.

Queenie hops down a curb. “Well, Newt’s worked hourly too. I get glimpses of his Ministry desk. Something ‘bout elves, but his memory’s all foggy, like he wasn’t paying attention either. Still, I’mso glad he’s made it! Our own Newt—world-renowned author.”

Jacob chuckles as his blonde date steamrolls past cars and buggies across the street to reach the glittering Empire State Building. He’s not sure what to expect inside when the polished revolving doors swallow them.

The newly-opened "Empty State", as non-wizarding folk lambast it, turns out to be anything but.

“Amazing. I heard this place wasn’t rentin’ too good.”

“No-Maj have a hard time in their new economy. And for the rest, MACUSA's enchanted rats to run out to greet anybody looking for office space,” Queenie says when they’re greeted by the Empire State’s marble columns and a spacious ground floor. She halts, then prods Jacob. “Tsk. Teen ate only a hotdog for breakfast and lunch, again. We need to start packing her lunches.”

“I’m right here, you know,” a dry voice remarks.

And there Tina is—still in her work clothes with her hands folded like she’s been waiting for them to arrive. The effect is matronly, precise. Jacob pretends not to hear Tina’s stomach growl.

She’s dourer than expected. Tina Goldstein’s spirits ought to be excellent for Newt’s largest ever book signing event in America. Why wouldn’t she be? There was already a good crowd here, browsing the intricate displays. There's even more people trickling through the doors, all wizards and witches trying hard to look like No-Maj tourists and not people attending an organized event.

“Why the long face, Tina?”

She’s leads them into the opposite end of the grand hall, past a group of curiously wreathed druids and some chattering British tourists thumbing pages of the book displays. “Been waiting my turn since mid-morning. Can’t say I didn’t think about leaving.”

Queenie interjects. “Oh, Teen, Newt wouldn't want that. You know.”

“You haven't seen him yet? You’n Newt having trouble?” Jacob frowns. “I can help sort it out. Newt’s definitely not a bad guy all told. A bit slow—”

Tina comes to a halt. She turns and flaps a hand in front of her face, a bit desperately.

“ _No_ , I mean _,_ no trouble at all. Nothing’s wrong. _Newt’s_ done nothing wrong. He’s just busy, and… well…”

Queenie gives his side a light prod.

Jacob's eyes finally travel to the long curving line of immaculately primped witches, who, viewed together, resemble a vivacious, colorful human flower chain—their wardrobe sampling an artists’ spring palette.

The one furthest up is doing her best to languish against the signing desk, bending like a purple willow over the harried-looking author, who is scribbling furiously into one out of a formidable mountain of books. A wizened bespectacled man sits next to him like some sort of guard dog.

“Sure don’t look like Newt’s enjoyin’ it,” Jacob observes soberly. “That’s good, right?”

Queenie nods faintly.

“They’re fans _,_ ” Tina informs them, gnawing her bottom lip angrily as one _fan_ tries to twirl a wild strand of Newt’s hair around her pinky. “And Newt deserves all the credit he can get. I don’t want to get in the way, when his book is doing so great with the _key_ demographics—”

“It's not the book doing well with this demographic, Teen.”

“I know.” Tina’s face gets pinched again. “I mean, if it was, I wouldn’t be worried about going over and saying hi. There’s plenty of _books_ to go around.”

“You’re overthinkin’ it,” Jacob notes. “Just think about what Newt’d want. We guys are simple. You two love each other, remember? He’d want to see ya.”

Queenie takes her sister’s hands. “Between losing some fans and seeing you happy, Newt would pick you in a heartbeat.”

“These harpies don’t even like fantastic creatures,” Jacob says with his best scoff. "You go stand in line and I'll scare 'em off."

Tina’s lips purse at their combined looks of immense patience. She can tell she’s being strategically babied, but it’s still an effective appeal.

“Okay, you win. But I warn you,” Tina starts. “Newt gets a bit… ever since I told him I l-loved him, he’s been a bit… oh hum.” Her cheeks are quite pink now.

“Believe in him more, Tina. My buddy can be smooth.”

Tina gives him a grateful but stressed look, before departing for the cuing autograph line.

A few girls actually turn and glare at her when Tina sidles over, in her dull grayish blue coat and ballooning work pants. So far, it all unfolds as predicted. Tina’s moved into the line, and Newt spots her quickly. Unfortunately, his leap up from his seat nearly head-butts a besotted girl in the chin.

“Oh,” Queenie observes, quite clinically. “He is very forward, isn’t he? I don’t think his publicist liked that.”

Jacob watches the bespectacled man shoot out furious red and yellow sparks from his wand next to Newt’s empty seat. “Hn.”

Still, he notes with no small amount of relish how all of Newt’s flourishes toward Tina are unmistakably romantic, as the Englishman practically glows in his tailored suit.

“Well, least those girls get the message now. He’s taken.”

“Knowing Teenie, she’ll pretend to be upset about this.” Queenie’s smile drops. “And then actually guilt herself into being upset.”

“Wha-?” Jacob trails off as he watches camera-brandishing reporters make a collective mad dash. “Women. I’ll never understand ‘em.”

“That’s fine.” Queenie gives him a fond pat on the arm, linking hers to his moments later. “I’ll teach you.”

“Hey now,” says Jacob, though he can’t stop grinning. “Wouldn’t want to attract too much attention either. Headlines tomorrow could be: _No-Maj baker gets his marbles back, then proceeds to nab most beautiful witch in city_.”

Queenie laughs. “We wouldn’t want to overshadow Newt and Teenie’s bit in Society or Culture tomorrow. The Ghost’s sure to print one of those pictures. They’re precious, together, and people need happy news, right about now.”

Jacob watches a pink Tina finally return Newt’s embrace, as the strange wizard cameras keep clicking and some female fans glower on.

He grins.

“Yeah. I’m gonna need to triple the size of their wedding cake, if they attract any more attention.”

 

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	20. Epithet, Unbreakable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have left a few, hopefully fun chapters. But who knows, maybe the bug will bite of its own accord again. Who knows.
> 
> Thanks as always, friends, for your encouragement. You guys are amazing.

.

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The last dance is slow.

One

Two

One—

 

* * *

 

 

Newt quakes as the organ’s dulcet tones sweeten and mellow. His question tumbles out clumsily like a jarring note.

“Tell me, Theseus, what would a war hero do?”

His brother spares a wry glance.

“Merlin, Newt, _what’s that?_ There are no war heroes. Only heroes who happen to be in a war.”

“What were you, then?”

“Exonerated for my sins." Theseus wrests his cufflinks back in place. "I get _all this_ despite everything I’ve done.”

“Does it… change you?”

“Some.” His brother looks away. “Yes.”

The mind wanders, wearily, grudgingly sometimes.

(Is he doing the right thing? What if things changed, after, even _during_ the war? Would he, would Tina still—?)

His elder brother’s eyes flick over him, senses sharp.

“You’ll change together, you know. Cherish that. Cherish her.”

“I do,” Newt says. “But I’m not you, Theseus. This - this feels _beyond me_ , sometimes. Why else would this be so terrifying?”

Theseus reaches to muss his little brother’s hair, fondly, reflexively, then stops and retracts.

“One of us is the true best man. It’s not me, Newton.”

 

* * *

 

Two

One

Two—

 

* * *

 

She’s momentarily, _shamefully_ unwound. Liquid drips from her nose. “I knew, if I’m to be a war bride, I’d rather be close to him when it happens. But it still feels unreal. _This…_ in the middle of-of everything.”

Her sister’s hug crushes her lungs, holding all of Tina’s pieces together. “Oh _Teen._ We always knew one of us would be the brave one.”

“That’s _you_ ,” Tina scoffs, inhales snot and wetness. “You married Jacob.”

“No, Jacob was the one who left everything to be with me. Now you’re leaving everything you know, to be with him.”

"Are you angry with me?"

Deft wand work restores the blushing bride’s face, at least.

“No." A shaky sigh. "It's just so _soon_ , to feel like I'm losing you. It's like yesterday, you dragging Newt and Jacob into our apartment.”

Tina nods, and Queenie’s careful hands unfurl the veil.

A constant vision of Tina’s past is slowly, by the inches, hazed behind exquisite eyelet lace.

"Are you ready?"

Tina rasps something in response. Something reassuring. Something adult.

Something incomprehensible.

“Love you _always_ , Teenie,” Queenie beams through the pale eyelet, as Tina watches her own smile break inside of her little sister’s swimming eyes. “But Newt loves you, too. Maybe more. _Maybe._ ”

“You’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t, Queenie.” And Tina tries her best to muster a laugh, because she’s expected to be the brave one.

(The world, you see, has it _all backwards._ )

Queenie, beyond words, merely nods. From the hallway door, Jacob looks on, his gaze soft on his wife.

Finally, the No-Maj (again, the world gets it wrong, with these labels) pads over and extends an arm to Tina.

“You ready, Tina?”

Her Legilimens sister is the first to know.

That’s likely why Queenie’s crying, choking out the answer.

_“She is.”_

 

* * *

 

 One

Two—

 

* * *

 

His friend's voice is firm.

“Remember this moment, Newt.”

 “I-I’ll try.”

He knows he looks bewildered, weepy too, perhaps.

He's showing everything he knows he shouldn’t show, but Jacob is still grinning and Newt remembers (again, again, and again) why he keeps Jacob around. Why Jacob lets him, really.

“Hey. It’s your big dance with your girl. _Go._ ”

And it’s a warm, firm, baker’s hand that sends Newt off onto the floor, toward a dazzling vision in white.

 

* * *

 

One—

 

* * *

 

He’s in front of her, and surprisingly, all those tales about this moment being _just you and him in the world_ are true.

Tina looks into his familiar eyes, green and gleaming against the golden fairy lights.

“Dance?” Newt asks hopefully.

She moves in, gown swishing then stopping.

“You were so patient with me that time, weren’t you? All this time.”

Strong arms draw her in all the way. His breath tickles her ear.

“I’ve been reminded all two weeks of how _im_ patient I am. Great-Aunt Lucrezia nearly had a conniption when we asked her to use Theseus’ leftover paper to send out our invites. Not that there were a lot of them to send.”

“There was no right time. But that's fine.” She interlaces their fingers. “I just want you.”

“Alright,” Newt says, as his fingers alight on Tina’s waist. “You’ll have me. You have me already, Mrs. Scamander.”

Her hand settles on his shoulder and they start.

 

* * *

 

The last dance is slow.

 

* * *

 

“Your hands are shaking.”

“It’s okay, Newt. Go slow.”

 

* * *

 

Two

One.

 

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	21. Roots, Unspoiled

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He watches her take loop de loops in the air and wonders if there’s any vision more joyous.

From the swerve her rented broom takes in the air, he can tell Tina’s seen him striding onto the muddy pitch.

“Come down, Tina!” he calls, peering at her distant exhilarated expression.

She laughs, shouts:

“ _You_ come up! These grounds are wonderful, Newt! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“To think… Ilvermorny, _better_ ,” Newt chuckles under his breath, before fetching a broom for himself.

Tina and Newt’s visit to Hogwarts is meant to be brief, only an afternoon interlude scheduled for when most of the students have trickled out into Hogsmeade. Tina, a tourist despite her MACUSA briefing assignment, feels overeager to see _everything_ , but they have a wedding rehearsal to catch and Newt’s family to meet, after meeting another important figure in Newt’s life. So they settle for a quick tour of the grounds, although with an aerial vantage point.

As more loose hairs fly into her open mouth, Tina decelerates, waiting for Newt to rise in elevation to meet her.

His own wild tangle of hair twists and curls against the wind—so artfully tousled it becomes, Tina is quite sure no comb would be able to penetrate it.

“You’ve finished?”

Newt blinks against the breeze as they fly together, nose flushing against the cold. “Dumbledore only kept me to discuss his recently acquired phoenix.

“He’s more open than I expected,” Tina says carefully. “About what he thinks is coming.”

“Open war, you mean,” Newt muses. “I think he has a point about the danger signs. Some say the reason Dumbledore’s not joined the Ministry is because he’s too outspoken for government work.” He eyes her. “Bureaucracy’s tend to placate. You’d know, working for MACUSA.”

“Mr. Scamander, are you teasing me?”

He tosses a lopsided grin to the wind, and immediately swerves away as she urges her broom toward his.

“Stay still! This rental broom’s too slow!”

“Nonsense. It’s an Oakshaft 79. Perfectly serviceable broom, hardier than most, and, in my opinion, a model that will do great things one day.”

“You really follow this stuff.” She can’t hide the admiration in her voice.

Newt ducks and swerves. “Well, Theseus needed a summer training partner.”

“You played?”

“With Theseus’ neighborhood friends, yes.”

“What position?”

“Oh, just chasing things around. Things they tossed.”

“Chaser?”

“Sort of. If handling whizzing gnomes and horklumps counts.”

“Well, you’re a good flyer.”

Newt’s smile is slower than usual, but still radiant. Hogwarts and talk of childhood, Tina realizes, has brought out some of Newt’s previous affects—tics present the first time she saw him in New York, which have faded over time as they grew closer. This place has regressed him, just slightly. Tina’s conflicted—she loves every rediscovered shade of him, but can’t love the pain behind his shyness.

“You are,” she repeats, and flies close enough to give Newt a lingering kiss. “And _many more_ good things.”

A small eruption occurs from below.

“Oh bugger,” Newt observes, torn between a grin and a grimace. “There’s students.”

“What’s the problem?” says Tina, far more comfortable with foreign strangers—juvenile ones, at that—than she would be if they were back home. “How vicious can they be?”

“Very. I think there’s a house team down there."

“Those are your house colors, aren’t they?” Tina’s mouth quirks. “Well, you just need to show them who’s boss, the old fashioned way.”

Newt's mouth is dry. "We don't have to. You said you don't like kids."

"Untrue. You just asked too soon, back then."

 

.

.

 

The Hufflepuff team’s usual chaser, Derwent Shimpling, apparently tried to eat five mandrakes in one sitting for a bet. What this allowed for was a makeshift game to be set up with Newt filling in for Shimpling, a few of the Hufflepuff team and a few students from other houses joining to make two teams.

Tina fills in as goal keeper of the side opposing Newt. This is because, even if Newt thinks differently, no one else in the game believes that someone riding an Oakshaft 79 should be allowed to play seeker.

“It’s okay, I played both positions in school,” Tina shrugs as she takes her station, and Newt manages the feat of looking alarmed and adoring at the same time.

“Don’t compare your level to ours,” sniffs a Slytherin boy on Tina’s team when he hears her accent. “Just don’t let us lose against these _Hufflepuffs_.”

And the game starts.

Newt is naturally agile on a broom, weaving and ducking bludgers with ease, but it’s been a long while since he’s handled a quaffle.

Still, quaffles are a vast improvement over struggling horklumps, feebly waving flobberworms, and other creatures Newt had to rescue from overeager budding quidditch stars in his neighborhood growing up.

He doesn’t notice the small crowd that’s formed below, watching the impromptu intramural game unfolding on the school pitch.

“Send it here!”

Newt has no clear shot, so he fervently prays for success as he feints and sharply swerves to reach the other chaser, handing the quaffle over.

Tina makes a spectacular save, leaning her body past the slower broom. Even as she rubs her back with a jokingly sour expression, her Slytherin teammate makes a subtle noise of appreciation at her reflexes. Newt has to stop himself from looking too happy.

“You fly, old man?” another of Tina’s team shouts.

He ignores the insult, because it’s probably one of the nicer things people have called him while at Hogwarts.

But also because, Newt realizes, he’s _outgrown_ a lot of things, after all.

For one, the old him would never have joined a quidditch game on a whim. The old him would never have considered aiding Dumbledore, taking this level of responsibility for both the creatures and humans he now so cherishes.

Thank Merlin for Tina.

Taking strength from this, Newt urges his broom to go higher, whisking the quaffle up from the mess of players and looping easily past one of the weaker non-team flyers to get a straight shot at one of Tina’s goals.

“You know I’m not going easy on you, Newt,” she calls. There’s a laughing gleam in her eye.

He falters a bit, dipping just low enough to escape an angled bludger.

Unfortunately, the hurtling bludger catches Tina unawares, and, while she dodges, Newt gives a great heave and imagines tossing a perfectly spherical horklump into one of the side goal rings.

The proper Hogwarts quaffle flies straight and true. Distantly, he registers crowds below cheering, Tina beaming. And, as Newt turns away and watches his makeshift team catch the snitch, he’s grinning.

Tomorrow, there will be more important games to play. But today, retracing roots is perhaps just as valuable.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to HP wikia for "Shimpling" and "Oakshaft", both of which I've shamelessly appropriated for my story. DO search them up. They've both got fun futures ahead!


	22. Various Aurors, Unrepentant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is crack. Sorry. D: Now go read other people's beautiful, heartwarming pieces about Theseus!

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Percival Graves issues an efficient, but no less heaving sigh.

He stares balefully up at the morose oil portrait of the original Auror Graves (who blinks and utters “yes”, “no”, “proceed with caution” and that’s about it), and Graves thanks the stars (again) that his ancestors had the good sense to not pass down anything wont to create an auror like Theseus Scamander.

“I caught that, Perce.”

“So you did,” Graves says wistfully, and wishes Scamander could also muster the decency to _act_ upon his observations.

“Drawing strength from ol’ Gondulphus again. Come now, old chap, is it really so bad having me here in the flesh?”

“We had a _deal._ ”

“No more promotions under thirty-seven, lest we have to step on each others' toes in our respective domains.” Theseus chuckles, as if remembering something amusing. “Yes, but you broke that rule first, Perce. And it wasn’t my choice to be promoted, and now the right hand arm of the Ministry, you understand. People want change when things turn south. Amazing that they didn’t sack _you_.”

Graves gives credit where it’s due. “Your brother’s help, actually. And the President’s, as well as the elder Miss Goldstein’s.”

A girl from the secretarial staff rushes in with some tea ordered about a half hour ago, blushing and stealing glances between the two men as she pours.

Naturally, Theseus chooses to pounce when MACUSA’s gossip lightning rod is in the office.

“Say, Percival, ever think about settling down?” he asks, winking at the office girl.

“Work takes precedence,” the rehabilitated auror deadpans, and starts sorting the ridiculous files the Minister’s sent over. “It’d have to be someone as dedicated as I am, or else it’s unfair.”

Theseus grins that infuriating grin of his, and gives a little British hand flourish that he knows drives decent Americans up a wall (and that Graves knows he doesn’t do, anytime they’re not in each other’s presence).

Yes, Scamander ups his English breeding to infuriating levels whenever he’s at MACUSA.

Whether this is a diplomatic strategy Theseus is spearheading for the Ministry is anyone’s guess. You see, Graves has learned better than to underestimate the man since a loss at the International Federation’s Youth Dueling Championships during sixth year. And again, Graves gives credit where it's due. The man has a brilliant, dastardly mind.

“You can’t get married to your work, no matter how much you try, Perce. Listen.” Theseus grins like a Cheshire. “I for one can say that cupid has dealt me a severe blow. She’s fairly brutal, though. Works in magical law enforcement. Any guesses?”

“Your Merlin help her. And thank you, Amelia,” Graves says, wincing as Theseus rises in his seat and gives the office girl a terrifying regal British bow goodbye.

 

.

.

 

The funny thing about rumors is that they’re embellished like a very artful, multi-layered cake. Each tier is a vague sponge of facts, and the people privy to that information almost always get bored, embellish with some sugar coating, and add a layer on top of the original facts.

So it builds, until it arrives in full fanfare on Tina’s desk.

“Congratulations.”

Tina looks up to see the pinched smile of a wispy new girl that’s replaced Queenie. “Nancy, hello.” She takes the proffered coffee, still hot but no longer steaming in its mug. “Thanks.”

Nancy Olgneska watches her with curious pale eyes, and Tina pauses before she sips. “Something wrong?”

“Well,” the girl wrings her hands. “There _may_ , or may _not_ , uh… be veritaserum in there.”

Tina very nearly drops her cup, all over MACUSA’s latest draft of _Fifty-Seven Unsuccessful Ways of Trapping Dark Wizards: And What We Can Learn From Them._

It would not have been a great loss, Tina thinks wryly.

She eyes the new girl. “Really? _Here?”_

“It is unauthorized and illegal, yes.” Nancy coughs lightly. “But it’s just a rumor, from the kitchen downstairs.” She frowns. “On top of the other rumors. Miss Goldstein, I hear you’re engaged to a Mr. Scamander? The one the office had a betting pool on months ago?”

“Uh—” Tina tries to crane past her stack of papers, and catch any eavesdropping neighbors. “I see you’ve spoken with Mr. Portler. Or any of the temps.”

“Well, I wanted to hear from the source.”

Fair. Tina understands that sentiment. “I am most certainly not engaged,” she mutters.

“Pity,” Nancy puts the mug back on her tray. “I’ll get you a fresh batch. Just tell Mr. Scamander that Mr. Graves puts up a mean duel. Also, um, if you don’t want one of them, can I go for the loser?”

A loud voice booms from behind Tina’s cubicle wall, as two figures turn the corner.

“My, what a flattering comment. Aren’t your subordinates loyal, Percival?”

Nancy goes from a wisp to vanished, with a sharp squeak of embarrassment. Tina gives her a pitying look, before standing to greet her visitors.

“Sir. And—” Tina works through the familiar features. _Huh._

There’s the eyes and everything else _almost_ alike, but also the much firmer shoulders, the poised stride, all rolled into a conventional Auror build, mixed with whiffs of a quidditch star’s ego.

“—Theseus Scamander.” He clasps her hand in his large, warm one. “Apparently, we’re to be married.”

“So I’ve been warned,” Tina says faintly. “Pardon, but I intend to cancel.”

“Why, Ari would like you very much,” chortles Theseus, and both Tina and her boss share an empathetic moment of confused frustration.

 

.

.

 

“Mr. Scamander?” This receptionist is in more of a tizzy than the usual. He's used to interested glances, but not this.

“Er, yes. That’s me.” Newt finishes signing his name in the guest book.

“Congratulations! You’re here to pay Miss Goldstein a visit? Oh, forgive my prying, but you two are perfect for each other! Level Five, right this way, sir. And then you’re due downstairs, I think? The personnel have cleared out for a half hour. _A small favor_ for a hero, sir.”

She inhales very loudly afterward, the normal color of her face restored.

Newt is happy enough to be congratulated for his relationship with Tina. Distant acquaintances were always giving him incredulous looks, and some, a measure of condolences for Tina. Mutual congratulation from strangers is something rare and far between.

Even the cantankerous goblin on the ground floor is nice to him. “Oy, Mr. Scamander. Come have your wand polished. Can’t have you fighting dark wizards with a dusty wand, no siree.”

“Th-thanks.”

“Or dueling Mr. Graves, y’know. His wand’s always in top form.”

_“Pardon?”_

Did he just insinuate a duel between Graves and Newt? Newt didn’t think Grindelwald would impersonate the same person twice. Why on earth...

“Oh, Mr. Scamander!” calls another stranger. “Congratulations on your engagement!”

Newt pauses his bow-legged strides toward the elevator.

“For work?”

The female aide actually giggles. “No! Your marriage!”

This bewilders Newt very much indeed. He’s daunted by even even imagining standing at an altar, chaining someone else eternally to him. Just imagine. “To w-whom?” he asks carefully.

“To Tina Goldstein, of course!”

And just like that, the dread-ridden feelings melt away. Only to be replaced by butterflies of a completely different nature.

He’s not quite sure how he does it, but after having his wand shined, Newt floats through a relaxing, fluttering happy cloud of confusion as people gently push into the elevator, up the chute. He manages to deposit himself somewhere into the general vicinity of the law enforcement office, where Newt is accosted by a familiar figure in blue.

Not that one.

“You!” Abernathy is _indignant_ , and Newt gives a squeak of despair as he is manhandled down into the dungeons of MACUSA again, presumably for the _duel of his life_ or something of that nature, if what Abernathy mutters in his ear along the way is correct.

“With Graves?” Newt says with some reluctance, thinking how it’s a shame he didn’t bring the Swooping Evil.

“No, you fool!” Abernathy is surprisingly strong for his size. “With your _brother!_ Thinks he’s too important to even fill out a wand permit, does he? Ministry secret business my _arse._ Thinks MACUSA’s a joke, do they?”

“Right,” Newt says, absolutely stumped. “I-I’m not following.”

Abernathy gives him one last withering look, and sends him down the chute again. The next face that Newt sees is again familiar, but it’s not his brother.

“Newt?” She flushes with pleasure, and Newt’s ear-splitting grin returns.

“ _Tina!_ We’re done.”

Both Newt and Tina swivel in the direction of her name being called. _And lo,_ there the man rests. Theseus leans casually, painstakingly modelesque, against the enormous wreckage of a dungeon cell.

“You didn’t hold Grindelwald _here_ , did you?”

Tina walks with him to where her boss and his brother are standing. “Interim, for about two minutes, with only ten aurors guarding. Stupid idea.”

“I’ve collected my evidence, and hopefully placated my boss,” says Theseus grandly, grinning down at Newt. “And I’m ready to begin my duel, now. So who am I dueling again? Little brother, you wish to challenge me for Miss Goldstein’s hand? Perhaps the right to take her to lunch?”

“Goldstein’s not going anywhere,” frowns Graves. “We have work to do.”

Theseus juts a chiseled jaw at him, fondly. “Jealous, Percival? We can have a rematch from school days, you know. Just ask, and ye shall receive.”

“Wait.” Newt squirms. “ _I_ am. I—I mean, I object.”

Tina looks endeared; Theseus, absolutely delighted.

Graves just stuffs his hands in his pockets and thinks about docking his entire department’s pay.

 

.

.

 

In the end, the story is that Graves, the American hero, shoves his British counterpart out the swinging MACUSA doors.

Eventually, some people correct others that there was _never_ anything going on between Theseus Scamander and Tina Goldstein, that there’s someone’s little brother involved. No one really has the time to worry for too long, however, because a department-wide pamphlet is circulated: warning about streamlining personnel at Magical Law Enforcement (the most vital, largest department), rendering every floor of MACUSA a bit nervous.

But that’s rumors for you. The true facts are rather bland, but not unimportant.

In the evening, Newt shuffles a bit and waves his brother out the door.

“It was good to see you, Newt.” Theseus grins. “You’re happy, here.”

“I am.”

“Happy with _her.”_

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll have a word with her boss about work hours. Maybe steal her for the Ministry, if MACUSA becomes insufferable. Then you two can have your fun in England.”

Newt fidgets, says: “Merlin, Theseus, _don’t._ I think I _love_ her,” and both his brother and Tina's boss go very still.

Theseus is the first to recover. He mock salutes Graves, who is now glowering silently behind his little brother’s stricken, still amusing expression.

“Good golly Newt, is that so bad?” Theseus laughs as he exits. “I like your American, too.”

 

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be re-titled:  
> Theseus Scamander chooses to be insufferable overseas, and is very good at it. (and then people at the office goof off, bam Newt comes to a realization, and Percy just wants peace)
> 
> So there you go. 
> 
> Hints about international wizarding subterfuge are just extra, and not the reason I write for this fandom.  
> I write these to tag minor characters like Gondulphus Graves. RIP Gondulphus.


End file.
